He nodded, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip and sending thrills of sensation lancing down her spine.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” she said, aware the words quavered, too aware of the powerful masculine body beneath hers. Everything feminine in her reacted to it, no matter how she told herself the provoking man would make a horrible husband.
“Is that right? If you leave here and return home, you’ll not think of me again? Because I shall think of you. I shall think of you a great deal.”
Georgie swallowed, uncertain of what she wanted to say.
“I shall take the lack of response as a positive sign, so if I’ve no hope, I beg you to speak now. For I mean to follow you to Scotland and ask your father’s permission to court you.”
She gasped, scrambling away from him, not having expected such a bold declaration.
He sat up, watching her intently. “Are you horrified? Do you wish me to the devil?”
Georgie could hardly breathe, let alone think of a suitable reply. “N-No,” she managed. “But I—I do not think I wish to m-marry you.”
He gave a dark chuckle. “I can hardly blame you for that. I’ve not been the most agreeable companion, have I?”
Unwilling to be unfair to him, Georgie shrugged. “You’re nice sometimes, Rochford. It’s the times when you’re not that bother me. I don’t want to marry a man who flies into rages and accuses me of wrongdoing for no reason.”
He nodded, his expression grave. “I know, but it has been pointed out to me that I might find the world a happier place if I had a woman like you beside me. I think perhaps, with you, that might be true. Would you give me a chance?”
Georgie hesitated. “That’s a lot of responsibility, duke, to be accountable for all of your happiness. I do not believe I am equal to the task.”
“I disagree,” he said, and the look in his eyes made her blush and drop her gaze from his. “But I understand your hesitation.”
“I am aware of the honour you do me,” she said carefully, needing him to know she did not dismiss his words lightly.
“But do you honour me enough to allow me the time to persuade you? Perhaps if I could prove to you I am not such a beast—”
“You are not a beast!” she exclaimed crossly. “I would never say or think it, Rochford, but you cannot deny the fact you are hardly an easy companion.”
“So you are in accord with Miss Knight, then, that it would be better to marry someone nice and kind and gentle, who would bore you to tears in a matter of days.”
“That is hardly what she said. That was only Jules being Jules and playing devil’s advocate,” Georgie retorted, irritated. “Why should a man who is sweet and kind and gentle be dull?”
“Because no one is always that way, love. We all have bad days; even the nicest of men can say hurtful things.”
“And someone who is not nice and kind and gentle. What is he like on a bad day?” she demanded.
Rochford reached out and his cold fingers traced the line of her jaw. “I could be nothing but gentle with you, love. You need never fear me. I’ve never raised a hand to a woman in anger, and I do not mean to start now. I would be kind to you, too, and though I am not so blind to my own failings that I can promise I won’t ever rant or give into a temper tantrum, you are at liberty to rant right back. Tell me I’m an obnoxious arse when you need to. I’ll not punish you for it, God, I want to hear you scold me. I’d give anything to hear you telling me what a pompous idiot I am. Tell me every day. Please. I’ll be the better for it, I swear.”
Oh.
His words were beguiling, luring her in, and she wanted very much to believe them. She knew her own parents’ marriage had got off to a shaky start because of her father’s temper and lack of trust, but Mama had learned to manage him, and Papa had stopped being angry once he’d found someone to care for him. Could she really do that for Rochford? Georgie wished very much that her mother was here now so she could advise her.
“I don’t love you,” she said in a rush, because that was the crux of the matter.
He gave a little snort of amusement. “If you said otherwise, I’d question your sanity. I know nothing about love and would never expect that from you. Even if I hoped for it, we don’t yet know each other well enough for more than liking, but I like you a good deal. Perhaps the rest will follow.”
“Perhaps,” she whispered, wondering if that could ever be enough to gamble away the rest of her life on him.
“Georgie,” and she felt a flush of pleasure sweep up her neck at the intimate use of her nickname. “Tell me one thing, and be honest with me.”
Georgie stared at him, panic rising in her chest. She didn’t want to answer his questions, certainly not with any honesty, but he asked her all the same.
“Right at his moment, do you want me to kiss you?”
Her breath caught, and she gave him a reproachful glare. “Oh, Rochford, that’s really not fair.”
He grinned, a broad masculine grin, the smug devil. “That’s what I thought,” he said, and pulled her into his arms.
Georgie gasped as his mouth met hers. Despite the wintry day, his lips were warm, and her body reacted instinctively, with no thought or instruction from her. Her mouth opened to him, letting him in, and he took full advantage, his tongue sliding against hers in a sensuous assault that made her giddy. The feel of his muscular arms about her was everything she wanted, and she leaned into him. Her hands went to his face, and she stroked his beard, entranced by the soft warmth. His mouth left hers to press soft kisses to her cheek, and he nuzzled the tender place beneath her ear.
“Georgie,” he groaned, and his weight bore her down, pressing her to the ground.
She knew it was a mistake, but she let it happen anyway. She did not have the will to fight him when everything about him made her blood heat on some primal level she did not entirely understand. The chill of the snowy blanket below her seeped into her clothes, a stark contrast to the fierce heat of him upon her. His body burned like a furnace, and she arched into him, seeking more, wanting his warmth and his weight, excited by the sheer power contained in his heavy frame.
His arousal pressed insistently against her, making her want to rock against him, to seek more contact. She tugged at him, pulling him down upon her, eager for him to crush his body to hers, wanting him to. Desire sang through her blood, with such force it made her afraid, afraid of what she might do or say if she allowed it to rule her.
“God, Georgie, you’re so sweet, so beautiful. I’ve met no one like you in all my days. I want you badly.”
His mouth trailed ardent kisses down her neck, returning to nip at her earlobe until she was panting and desperate. Something hot and demanding throbbed in her blood, pulsing in the private place between her thighs as his body fit snugly against hers, as if he’d been made for her, and she knew it would be far too easy to give in, to let this feeling rule her and take her choices away.
“I want you, love, so much, and it seems you’re not entirely repulsed by my touch either,” he added, something in his voice between amusement and wonder.
Georgie gazed up at him, staring into his eyes, seeing his hard features gentler than ever before, despite the harsh glare of daylight that did not treat him kindly, highlighting his flaws. Most might turn away, might call him ugly, but she could not. He was compelling, yes, but so much more than his scars and his damaged exterior. She did not see the scars anymore, not as flaws, at least. They were simply a part of him. He was Rochford, big and intimidating and bad-tempered and gentle, and thoroughly overwhelming. Georgie gasped as his hand cupped her breast and squeezed. Despite the layers of clothing under his hand, his touch sent a jolt of lust through her that made her moan with pleasure. His breath caught, and he kissed her again, deeper and more insistent, and Georgie wrapped herself tighter about him, vibratingly aware of his arousal between them, of how it made her feel to know how badly he wanted her. As badly as she wanted him.
He stared d
own at her, his face intense, a desperate look in his eyes that made her heart jitter with agitation. “Ah, Georgie, marry me and have done with this. Why wait? You want me too, by some miracle. Be my duchess and I’ll treat you like a queen. You’ll have anything you want, anything at all. You need only name it. I’d give you the world if I could.”
Panic rose like a hot tide, smothering desire. No. She couldn’t. It was ridiculous, far too fast. This connection to him was too intense, too terrifying, and based on little more than physical lust. He was overwhelming her, with his hopes for what she would give him, with his desire for her and his domineering ways. She’d not let him rush her into a decision she’d have a lifetime to regret. She did not give a damn about the damage she could see. It was the damage inside him that made her shy away.
She pushed at his chest, shaking her head. “No. No, I can’t. I’m sorry, Rochford… I can’t.”
He rolled aside, letting her up at once and loss of his heat made her shiver, the removal of his powerful body leaving her weak, and uncertain of everything but her need to get away from him.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, and fled.
Chapter 17
Bainbridge,
Tell me what you know of Miss Vivien Ashton. I think your wife is friends with her. I met her today and cannot get the image of her beautiful face out of my mind. She is simply stunning, and I may be an arrogant devil, but I think she took a shine to me.
I only ask because she strikes me as the kind of woman who—well, who causes mayhem of the same variety as my mother and sisters. Lord help me, Laurie, but I do not need another female in my life that likes excitement and sets off explosions whenever her feet touch the ground. I want to put all the inappropriate behaviour and folly of the past behind me and live in a peaceful household where I can wake up each morning without being thrust into somebody else’s drama.
Unless you can write back and tell me I have misjudged, I believe I must ensure our paths do not cross again.
―Excerpt of a letter to The Most Hon’ble, Lawrence Grenville, The Marquess of Bainbridge from his friend, Mr August Lane-Fox.
19th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.
Joe took one look at Rochford’s face and thankfully refrained from making the obvious comment.
He’d cocked it up.
Not just a little either, but badly. He was so bloody furious with himself he wanted to hit something. Hard.
Joe sighed and went out of the room, returning not long after with a decanter of brandy and a glass. He poured a large measure and handed it over.
“Want to tell me about it?”
“Not really.”
“Right you are.”
Joe took himself off the adjoining room, where Rochford could hear him doing some aggressive tidying.
“I asked her to marry me,” Rochford said miserably, before downing the brandy in one large swallow and setting the glass aside.
All movement ceased in the adjoining room. A moment later, Joe looked around the door. “You great pillock.”
Rochford put his head in his hands and groaned.
“What on earth made you do such a thing?” his valet demanded.
“I don’t know. She was there, in my arms, and it was so bloody perfect and… and I panicked. I knew in that moment there was not another woman alive who’d want me like that, who could put up with me and give as good as she got. I had to have her.”
“So you proposed.”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She said no,” Rochford snapped testily, as if that wasn’t bloody obvious.
Joe pursed his lips and folded his arms, repeating with excessive patience, “What exactly did she say?”
“She said, ‘no, I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m sorry,’ or words to that effect. Then she burst into tears and ran as fast as she could. She’s likely in Scotland by now, she moved so bloody quick.”
Rochford watched as Joe stalked up and down the bedroom, muttering under his breath, no doubt cursing his employer’s stupidity. Rochford didn’t blame him. He wanted to go back in time and make it right, but he’d wanted that before now and nothing ever came right once it had gone wrong, so he might as well accept the fact he’d messed it up and lost her.
“Don’t look like that,” Joe said, scowling at him.
“Like what?” Rochford demanded, reaching for the brandy bottle and pouring a large measure.
“Well, if the next words out of your mouth are, ‘pack my bags. We’re going back to Cumbria.’ I’ll wash my hands of you for good.”
Rochford snorted and shook his head. “I may as well. She’ll avoid me now.”
“And with good reason. You scared the poor girl off.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” he yelled.
Joe raised an eyebrow. Rochford huffed and reminded himself he was trying to behave in a more civilised manner. He reined in his temper… not that there was much bloody point now.
“Right, you cocked it up. Again,” Joe said with a sigh. “But, on the positive side, she let you kiss her again. All is not lost. She likes you. You just overwhelmed her. Though, to be fair, it’s hard to see how you could do otherwise,” he muttered, eyeing Rochford up and down.
“Don’t humour me, Joe,” Rochford said. “If I get the chance, I’ll apologise, but she’ll keep her distance now.”
“Don’t you go falling into one of your black moods,” Joe warned him, hands on hips, his expression mutinous. “I can’t do a thing with you when you get yourself in a tizzy. It’s like you dig a great hole and pull a big black cloud over your head.”
“Probably to escape your nagging,” Rochford muttered, pouring himself out another large drink. “Leave me be, will you?”
“Fine,” Joe said, but he strode over and snatched up the bottle of brandy. “But you’re not pickling yourself too. We’ll find a way out of this. We just need to think. In the meantime, you’re to go down to dinner tonight and make yourself agreeable, and find a quiet moment to tell her you’re sorry you scared her.”
“Right,” Rochford said dully.
Not that he thought Joe could fix it. Joe had made a better job of his appearance than any of his other valets, so at least he did not look like a barbarian in a suit. He also talked to him as if he was a real person and didn’t leap out of his skin in terror when Rochford stomped about like an enraged bull, but he couldn’t mend the past. No one could. No matter how much they wanted to.
Meg stared at her, mouth agape. “Yer aff yer heid,” she said, folding her arms and looking utterly disgusted. “Ye mean to tell me ye could have been a duchess, married to that great big hunk of a man, and you said no?”
“I am not fool enough to marry a man I barely know when I’ve spent half the time I have known him wanting to wring his blasted neck!” Georgie flung back, though in truth she was utterly wretched.
“You could have got to know him, ye great numpty. Just because you didn’t want to marry him tomorrow, dinnae mean you couldn’t keep yer options open.”
“It’s not kind to give men false hope,” Georgie said, but her throat was thick and the idea of going down to dinner made her nauseated. She’d eat in her room tonight. Might be safest.
“I could ha’ been lady-in-waiting to the Duchess of Rochford,” Meg groused, shaking her head sadly. “But nae, ye’ll go back to Wildsyde and marry that gowk who’s always mooning about after ye.”
She picked up Georgie’s discarded coat and muff, giving both items an angry shake.
“He’s not a gowk,” Georgie retorted, pulling the pins from her hair. They were stabbing at her skull and her head was pounding. “He’s very well read. I’ll have you know. He writes poetry,” she added, as if that settled it.
Meg stared at her and made an expressive sound of disgust before stalking off and leaving her alone.
“Oh, Mama,” Georgie said aloud. “Whatever ought I to do?”
She put her head in her hands, staring at
the carpet beneath her feet where a tiny slip of paper caught her eye. Georgie bent down and reached for it, knowing already what it was.
Kiss a man under the mistletoe.
The words of her dare stared back at her reproachfully as her mother’s voice echoed in her ears.
Trust in the dare, Georgie. It will lead you where you need to go.
Georgie groaned and wondered what on earth she ought to do now?
24th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.
As Rochford had assumed, Georgie avoided him. Oh, not completely. If they were in company, she was scrupulously polite and included him in conversation. She did not look at him directly though, and if there was the slightest chance of being alone with him, she ran like a frightened rabbit with a hound at its heels.
Despite Joe’s nagging and counsel, Rochford sank into despondency. He did not know how to fix what he had so clumsily broken. What did he expect, though?
You great clumsy brute. You ought not be around civilised people. Oh, why did your father have to die of disease and not you?
He pushed the hateful words away and told himself it didn’t matter. So what? Yes, he was big and coarse and ugly, and people didn’t like having him around. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know it. He’d been mad to think Georgie was different. No. She was different, kinder and more compassionate than most, but not fool enough to tie herself to him forever. Perhaps if he’d bothered to be the least bit patient, if he’d treated her with more care, he might have stood a chance, but that was the trouble with him. He did not know how to be careful. A memory surfaced of a smashed porcelain tea service and his mother’s fury, but he buried that memory along with her accompanying words. Not the lesson though. He remembered the lesson. He broke things because fragile, pretty things did not belong in his world. He’d learned that a long time ago, or thought he had. This was just a reminder, that was all. One he had sorely needed.
Well, this wretched holiday would be over soon and his obligation to be a polite guest at an end. He’d go back to Mulcaster, where the great stone walls of the castle were better equipped to handle his particular brand of care.
The Mistletoe Dare (Daring Daughters Book 8) Page 18