The Mistletoe Dare (Daring Daughters Book 8)

by Emma V. Leech

  “Lady Georgina.”

  She turned, sent reeling off balance to find Rochford standing close behind her. He grasped her arm, steadying her, and she yanked it from his hold.

  “Oh!” she said crossly, her hand pressing against her thundering heart. What on earth was he doing here? “Oh, you made me jump.”

  His dark eyebrows drew together. “Well, I didn’t creep up on you, if that’s what you’re implying. I’m not exactly built for stealth.”

  Georgie huffed out a sigh. Clearly he’d come with the express intention of irritating her. “No, apparently you’re built for annoying me. I thought we agreed to stay away from each other.”

  He shook his head. “No, you said you’d stay away from me.”

  “Well, you told me to stay away from you too, did you not?” she retorted, folding her arms. Georgie glared at him and wished his nearness didn’t have her nerves leaping with excitement. Honestly, she was an idiot to be besotted with him just because he was so big and strong and… and had the temperament of a baited badger with a naturally dyspeptic disposition, and a toothache.

  “I did,” he agreed, looking strangely awkward. He rubbed the back of his neck and she studied him, realising he looked very smart indeed. His beard and hair had been trimmed and everything about him was immaculate.

  “You look very nice,” she said grudgingly, partly because she suspected he didn’t get many compliments, and partly because it was true.

  To her astonishment, colour tinged the crests of his cheeks. “My valet insisted I trim my beard,” he said, rubbing at it self-consciously.

  Georgie clenched her fists, before the desire to reach up and stroke it herself got the better of her.

  “You look very smart, very… ducal,” she added stiffly, resisting the urge to tell him he was handsome because he’d think she was mocking him. She wasn’t. Oh, she knew he wasn’t handsome, not at all, at least, not in the conventional sense. Yet there was something about him that appealed to her so deeply that it seemed to overcome his scars and his damaged skin. All she saw was his physique, his grey eyes, the thick dark hair, and that tantalising suspicion he was nothing but a big fraud underneath his angry exterior. Damnation, she was a fool.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, though his words were muffled as the music swelled around them.

  Georgie sighed, assuming he’d not heard her. It was very noisy with the orchestra and everyone chattering. “I said, you look very ducal,” she repeated, raising her voice to be heard over the din.

  He looked perplexed. “And I said, I’m sorry.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, for the love of God,” he muttered. “It didn’t ought to be this hard.”

  “What didn’t?”

  “Will you dance with me?” he demanded.

  Georgie stared at him in shock. “You made it very clear you wouldn’t dance with me. I even begged, and you still refused. You clearly have no desire to do so,” she said, waving her fan vigorously. It was hot in here, wasn’t it?

  “I do. I just asked you.”

  “Well, don’t,” she snapped, waving her fan harder still. “I don’t need your charity, I thank you.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. You wanted to dance with me.”

  “Yes. Wanted to. Now I don’t,” she retorted, which was a big fat lie, but she’d die rather than let him know that. The great ox.

  “Please, Lady Georgina. Will you dance with me?”

  The desire to say yes was burning on her tongue, but then she remembered how he’d hurt her with his accusations. He’d accused her of being the worst kind of manipulative female and… she couldn’t trust him. He was too difficult, too suspicious, too broken, and it wasn’t her job to fix him. She shook her head, not trusting her tongue to say what it needed to.

  His expression was so grim she thought perhaps he truly regretted her refusal, but that was just her wishful thinking.

  “I’m sorry for what I said to you. I know it wasn’t true. You were right, it was all me, my… cowardice. That’s… it’s why I came, to apologise, I mean. It’s just….”

  He let out a sigh of frustration and Georgie looked up at him, stunned by his words and wanting to hear more, even though instinct told her she would be an idiot to let him any closer. She was too susceptible to him. He appealed to her on a visceral level she did not understand, and it would be so easy to be drawn in, too easy, and she did not wish to end her days married to a man who didn’t know how to let anyone close and would make her wretched.

  “It’s just…?” she prompted, her desire to hear him explain overriding good sense.

  His grey eyes met hers, warm and surprisingly vulnerable. “It’s hard,” he said softly. “To believe someone as beautiful as you would want to give me the time of day for any other reason than my title. I can assure you, no one has before.”

  She smiled, profoundly touched by his words. “You mean you didn’t think it was your winning personality that drew me in?”

  He snorted, returning a crooked grin which made him look almost boyish. “I did not.” His expression sobered, and he gazed at her. “You are the most beautiful woman here tonight, Lady Georgina, and I do not know why you might want to, but I would be honoured if you would dance with me.”

  Oh.

  Well. What choice did she have after a speech like that?

  “Oh, Rochford,” she said with a sigh of resignation. “I should like that very much.”

  Rochford let out a breath of relief, which made her smile. He held out his hand to her, and she took it, too aware of his touch even with gloves between them.

  Georgie followed him out onto the dance floor, conscious of curious gazes watching them together. This was the second time they’d danced together, and Rochford never danced. Tongues would wag, but she didn’t care. Let them talk. All she had wanted was to dance with him again and she had her wish. After Christmas, she’d return to Scotland and their silly chattering would die out quickly enough.

  Rochford swept her into the dance, and Georgie relished every moment. Though she doubted either of them would win any prizes for style or elegance, he moved very well, and it was a joy to be close to him again. His powerful arms seemed the safest place in the world to be, as he guided her effortlessly about the floor. Goodness, but this was heaven. She never wanted the dance to end.

  “Do you like living in Scotland?”

  The question caught her off guard, and it took a moment for her attention to return to reality.

  “Yes, very much,” she said, a little surprised that he would try to make polite conversation.

  “You don’t find it too dull, too remote, lacking in entertainment?” he pressed, studying her face intently, concern in his eyes.

  Georgie watched him in return, puzzled by his sudden interest. “No. Not at all. I love the countryside. I walk for miles, and ride too, though I confess I enjoy coming to town as well. I have been so looking forward to this visit with Aunt Prue and everyone, but I would not wish to spend too much time here.”

  He nodded. “You would hope to settle in the country when you marry, then?”

  “I suppose so,” she said cautiously.

  Her answer seemed to reassure him, his expression clearing, though he wasn’t done. “But what if your family were far away? Wouldn’t you miss them?”

  “Of course,” she said at once, wondering where this was going. “But that is the fate of many brides, and I hope they would visit often, and that I would visit them.”

  “I suppose you’d want a place in town, too, and to arrange balls and parties and the like?” he added, sounding far too casual.

  She frowned at him suspiciously. “Why on earth would you suppose that? I’m hardly angling to be a society darling. Of course, if I married a man whose position demanded a great deal of entertaining, I would have to adapt, but I’m certainly not searching for the role. As I said, I like coming to town from time to time, but I prefer a quiet life.”

  “You do?”
he asked, a pleased glint in his eyes.

  “Yes, I do. Rochford, why all the questions?”

  “No reason,” he asked, and then swept her into a dizzying series of turns until she could hardly remember her name, never mind what they’d been discussing.

  Chapter 13

  Dearest Georgie,

  I must correct you, I’m afraid. The title of most vexing man who ever lived has already been taken. Mr Sylvester Cootes has certainly earned the title. His brothers are both charming, though the elder Lord de Ligne is a dreadful rogue. I think Greer is smitten with him, however. I should not be surprised if there is an announcement in that quarter very soon.

  Do have a care with your duke, Georgie. Just think how dreadful it would be to end your days married to a man who makes you cross every time you speak to him.

  ―Excerpt of a letter to Lady Georgina Anderson (daughter of Gordon and Ruth Anderson, The Earl and Countess of Morven) from Lady Aisling Baxter (daughter of Luke and Kitty Baxter, The Earl and Countess of Trevick).

  14th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

  “Thank you for the dance, Monsieur Le Comte,” Evie said, grinning at Louis César. She adored dancing with Louis, for he was a marvellous partner and always made her feel light as a feather. She suspected he could make anyone feel like they floated on air.

  He smiled at her, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm as he guided her from the dance floor.

  “It was my pleasure, I assure you.” His expression grew serious. “I hope you will not allow those vacuous creatures to spoil your evening. They are the kind to criticise everyone, even each other, for their own amusement. You must not heed them.”

  Evie laughed and shook her head. “Of course not. My self-esteem is not so fragile as that. Actually, Lofty and Dumpling are quite accurate, I suppose, and I rather adore dumplings. I’d take it as a compliment, only they meant to taunt, of course, which is never pleasant. They may think what they like, though. Georgie looks quite stunning, and I adore parties. I’ve decided you were quite right about the silly diet, too. I was foolish to let Madame Blanchet overset me. I don’t know what I was thinking. The food tonight is too delicious not to enjoy. Plus, my gown is the prettiest I have ever seen. Nothing will spoil this evening for me, I assure you.”

  “I am glad, ma petite. I cannot stand to see you unhappy.”

  She looked up at him, touched by his obvious concern. “How could one be unhappy at such a marvellous party and in such good company?”

  She felt his hand cover hers, his expression warm and approving. “You look stunning, Miss Knight, and that gown is a triumph. I do not know whether to congratulate myself or wish I’d been a deal less clever.”

  She gave him a curious glance, not taking his meaning.

  He sighed. “There’s not a man here who hasn’t noticed you,” he said, not looking entirely pleased by the fact.

  Evie laughed, startled. “Don’t be silly.”

  “I am not being silly,” he said curtly, but they were obliged to halt the conversation as a young man she knew hurried up to her.

  “Miss Knight,” he said, smiling broadly at her. “Might you jot me down upon your dance card? If it’s not full, that is,” he added.

  Evie smiled at him. “Of course, Mr Greaves. I shall save you a country dance.”

  “Oh, jolly good. Until then.” He executed a neat bow and took himself off.

  “See?” Louis said darkly as she jotted his name on her fan.

  Evie snorted, amused. “I always dance with Mr Greaves. He’s very nice.”

  Louis muttered something she didn’t catch, but guided them back to where his brother and Eliza were standing. He fell into conversation with Nic as Eliza tugged her aside.

  “Oh, Evie, do let me introduce you,” she said, smiling at her. “This is Mr Jonathan Price and Mr Jeffrey Hadley-Smythe. Gentlemen, this is my dear friend, Miss Evie Knight.”

  A lively conversation ensued as Mr Price and Mr Hadley-Smythe were easy-going gentlemen and it appeared they had several acquaintances in common.

  “Ashburton is here, isn’t he?” Evie said, finding they all knew the Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu’s eldest son, the Earl of Ashburton. Ashburton had told Jules he was coming, so he must be among the throng. She suspected his parents must have forced him to attend, for he was not one for society, unlike his younger brother, Thomas.

  “Yes. So’s his pa. Caused a stir as usual, with ladies swooning all around. The two of them together are more than some women can take,” Mr Price said dryly, before adding. “Though that fellow seems to cause as much stir all by himself. Who is he?”

  His sour expression spoke volumes and Evie suspected more than a touch of the green-eyed monster. She did not need to turn her head to know he spoke of Louis César.

  “The Comte de Villen,” she said with a smile, feeling a burst of pride in her friend.

  “Oh, a Frenchie,” Mr Price said, somewhat disparagingly.

  Evie scowled, irritated, and struggled to bite back an angry comment.

  Mr Hadley-Smythe hurried to fill the gap, aware of Evie’s indignation. “Might you do me the honour of a dance, Miss Knight?” he asked. “There’s a waltz beginning if you’ve not already a partner?”

  Evie looked up into his eager brown eyes. He had a friendly face and looked to be the kind of man who was willing to be pleased by everything. She decided she liked Mr Hadley-Smythe far more than his friend.

  “I don’t, and I should like that very much,” she said, and took his arm.

  Rochford watched Georgie dancing with the comte’s brother, Nic, relieved the man was married. He felt like a cat on hot bricks, certain that some nicer, handsomer fellow would spot the treasure that was right in front of them and sweep her away before he got the chance. Of course, that was hardly his only problem. He didn’t have the least idea how one went about courting a woman, but he needed to discover the trick of it, and quickly. Though if courting relied solely upon charm and romantic gestures, he was in deep trouble. He hadn’t even managed to apologise without causing a row. Still, he’d got there in the end, and she had danced with him, which still seemed something of a miracle. She’d even appeared to enjoy it.

  Remembering how very right it had felt to hold her in his arms stirred something anxious and panicky in his chest and he battered it down with difficulty. He told himself this was ridiculous. He barely knew the girl and he must stop getting himself in such a lather. The likelihood was she wouldn’t want to marry him. She didn’t want to marry him, she’d told him twice at least. The idea of being a duchess clearly didn’t appeal, and he was hardly a catch if you put that attraction to one side. Jules was a fool, and Rochford himself was a bigger one for getting his hopes up, and yet—he was going to try. He had to try, even if his chances were slim at best. So what if he made a horse’s arse of himself? It would hardly be the first time. Besides, how hard could it be? He could ask her to dance again. That would be a start, and then… perhaps tomorrow he could take her out riding with him. That was what courting couples did, wasn’t it? He chewed at his lip and decided he’d best ask Joe what he thought. The devil was always full of advice, whether or not it was wanted. He’d been right about the beard.

  “Good evening, your grace.”

  Rochford looked around to see Miss Knight at his elbow. Of everyone at this house party—except for Georgie—she was easiest person to be around. He did not intimidate her, and she didn’t seem to expect anything of him. She was quite content to sit in silence, but she didn’t look horrified if he spoke to her either.

  “Miss Knight,” he said, nodding politely. She followed his gaze to Georgina and smiled.

  “She looks stunning this evening, doesn’t she?”

  “She does,” he agreed.

  The young woman beamed at him. “You looked very well dancing together. It’s tricky for her to find a suitable dance partner. Well, for me too,” she added with a laugh. “If I don’t want to end the evening wi
th a crick in my neck.”

  “I think I might cause you a permanent injury in that case,” he replied, rather surprised to be enjoying a conversation at a ball.

  Her laugh was merry, the kind that invited others to join in, and drew the gazes of several people around them. “Oh, not permanent, I think. I’ll risk it if you will,” she added with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

  Rochford stared at her in surprise. Had she just invited him to ask her to dance?

  She laughed again at his obvious astonishment. “I’m sorry, your grace, but the cat is out of the bag. Jules has just told me I’m not to believe you are as fierce as everyone says because you’re not half so scary as you make out.”

  “Yes, he is,” retorted a familiar voice. His favourite voice.

  Rochford turned to see Monsieur Demarteau guiding Georgina back towards them. She was giving Evie a mock serious glare. “Don’t you believe a word of it. Jules said the same to me, but he’s wrong. His grace is quite dreadful and very scary. I should run if I were you.”

  “Well, duke? Who has the right of it?” Miss Knight demanded. “Should I run or demand my dance?”

  Rochford looked between them, uncertain of what to do or say. He was unused to being teased. Mocked, yes, but not this friendly banter and… and he did not know how to reply. Perhaps sensing his predicament, Georgie answered for him.

  “I think perhaps we are both right, but you should judge for yourself, Evie. Will you dance with her, Rochford?”

  “It would be my honour,” he replied gravely, and gave Miss Knight a formal bow before offering her his arm. He hesitated before leading her off. “And you, Lady Georgina, will you dance with me again?”

  “Again?” she replied. Colour touched her cheeks, a glorious flush of pink that made his breath catch. Was that pleasure or embarrassment? Did she want to dance again, or was she scrabbling about for a reason to refuse him? He waited, embarrassment growing as she dithered.