The Mistletoe Dare (Daring Daughters Book 8)

by Emma V. Leech

  Strangely, Rochford did not seem the least bit put out or ill at ease, but ate his dinner with apparent contentment. When the meal was over, he wished everyone goodnight before retiring for the evening, only for Georgie to realise she’d barely spoken a word to him all evening.

  She glared at her brothers and her father, folding her arms. “Well, thank you very much. If that didn’t scare him off, I can only imagine breakfast will put the lid on it.”

  “Ach, what d’ye want to go marrying a surly munter like that for?” Muir said, shaking his head. “Ye can do better, yappy dug. Don’t settle for the first fellow as shows an interest.”

  “Better than a duke?” Georgie retorted, irritated.

  “He means prettier,” Hamilton explained seriously. “Ye’d not be wanting to wake up beside that every morning. ‘Twould put ye off yer porridge.”

  “I’d rather wake up beside him than any other man I’ve met, no matter how pretty,” she retorted, fuming at their inconsiderate words.

  Then, as she saw them fall about laughing, she realised what she’d said, and that the beasts had goaded her on purpose. Blushing furiously, she scowled at them and flounced to the door, slamming it on her way out.

  Rochford was always an early riser, but he made certain he was up and about in good time the next morning, determined to keep his promise and not outstay his welcome. He wanted to do things properly this time, and he’d taken a risk last night as it was, turning up out of the blue. It would be the last. He made his way down the stairs, surprised and pleased to discover Georgie waiting for him.

  “Good morning,” she said, looking adorably and uncharacteristically shy.

  “Good morning,” he replied, feeling his spirits lift at the sight of her. “Did you sleep well?”

  She smiled. “I think I’m supposed to ask you that as you’re our guest, but yes, thank you. I wanted to speak to you though, Rochford, to apologise.”

  He frowned. “What for?”

  “For last night,” she said, wringing her hands together. “Honestly, my family is not usually so very difficult. I don’t know what’s got into them.”

  “Difficult?” he echoed, his frown deepening in confusion.

  “Oh, please don’t be polite. At dinner last night, it was so awkward, with no one speaking. Mama tried her best, but Pa was cross, and my brothers were being difficult on purpose. They’re protecting me, of course, but it was hardly helpful.”

  Rochford stared at her with interest. “Georgie, I eat alone most nights. Once a month I steel myself for dinner with my mother, which is an ordeal for both of us endured in silence. Last night was convivial in comparison and I’d have not noticed a thing if you’d said nothing.”

  “You thought that was normal?” she asked, staring at him in alarm.

  “It didn’t seem unusual, no. Actually, I rather enjoyed it,” he admitted. “You’ve a fine cook.”

  “Oh, Rochford!” she said crossly and hugged him, there in the middle of the entrance hall.

  Instinctively and with a burst of pleasure, his arms went around her as he gazed down at her in amusement. “What’s this for, now? Not that I’m complaining, you understand.”

  “You need looking after,” she wailed, though she’d pressed her face into his waistcoat and the words came out muffled. “Why must you make me want to look after you?”

  He grinned, for that had to be a good sign. “I want to marry you. You don’t want to be a duchess. I’m not allowed to seduce you, and I’ve not an ounce of charm. I’ll take pity as a motivating factor.”

  “You’re impossible,” she grumbled.

  He snorted. “This cannot come as a surprise to you.”

  She shook her head, and he put his hand beneath her chin, raising her face so he could look at her.

  “I’ll be back on Sunday. I’ll take you to church and then we’ll go for a walk or a ride if the weather is fine. We’ll talk.”

  Georgie stared up at him and nodded.

  Though the urge to kiss her was nigh on irresistible, he forced himself to release her and step back, contenting himself with raising her fingers to his lips.

  “Until Sunday,” he said, and went out to his carriage.

  Rochford was as good as his word. For the next eight weeks, he visited Georgie twice a week without fail. Once on Sunday, and for tea on Wednesday afternoon. He was never late, was scrupulously polite to her family, and kind and attentive to Georgie.

  It was a cold, bright February afternoon when Georgie took him for a walk out to the ruins of Bucholie Castle. It was a wild place, romantic, and dangerous too if you weren’t careful. But her parents had taught Georgie from a child where was safe to play and where was not, because her mother had almost fallen off the cliffside herself. Her parents had known it was pointless forbidding their children to go somewhere so interesting, and so they’d taught them where the dangers lay instead.

  “Christ, it’s cold,” Rochford muttered as an icy wind whipped about the headland, tugging at his coat. “Should we go back? I don’t want you to catch a chill.”

  Georgie laughed and shook her head. “Not unless you’ve had enough. I was born here, Rochford. I won’t wilt because there’s a bit of a breeze.”

  “A bit of a breeze?” he repeated, shaking his head. “Were you hoping it would blow me off the edge and into the sea so you could be rid of me?”

  “There are easier ways to be rid of you, if I had a mind,” Georgie shot back, grinning at him.

  Rochford paused, his gaze intent as the guillemots shrieked above them, riding the buffeting air currents overhead. “Does this mean you don’t mind having me about?”

  Georgie stood for a long moment, staring out at the endless expanse of blue as the freezing north sea glittered in the sun. “I would have told you by now if I did, duke, or do you think I’m the kind to toy with a man’s affections?”

  He shook his head. “No. But I know I’m no prize, Georgie. I’m wealthy and titled, but I’m still me.”

  She turned to look at him. “So you are,” she said softly.

  “It’s not much of a payoff.” His tone was dry, but she saw the anxiety in his eyes.

  “But perhaps it’s enough of one. I suppose I can overlook the fact you’re a duke, after all,” she said, biting back a smile.

  He moved closer and took her hand, curling their fingers together. “Have I reason to hope, then?”

  Georgie reached up and stroked his beard, staring into his dark grey eyes. She was uncertain how much better she had truly come to know him over these past weeks. Her father allowed the visits, but only if they were chaperoned. This was the first time he’d allowed them to walk out alone and only because he’d said even the most ardent lover would rather wait for spring than expose his tender parts to the freezing temperatures outside.

  Rochford had been on his best behaviour for his visits, she knew, and that would not be the case if they married, but he had also shown himself to be patient and willing to please her and make himself agreeable. He could do it, if motivated, and that had to be a good sign.

  “You have cause to kiss me, I think,” she said, her heart skipping as she saw the way his eyes darkened.

  She half expected him to grab hold and devour her, his expression was so raw with longing, but he didn’t. He pulled her close to him, holding her carefully, and pressed his mouth to hers.

  Despite the cold, his lips were warm and soft and, oh, she had forgotten just how devastating the touch of his mouth was. Her breath caught, and it was she who deepened the kiss, her heart soaring at the slide of his tongue against hers. She had missed this, wanted this. She could not deny that she wanted him. Her hands caught the back of his neck and she pressed closer to him, wishing the weather was warmer and had not frozen the ground solid. His big hands roamed up and down her back, soothing and caressing and finally settling upon her hips. He pulled her against him, holding her close until a groan escaped him, and he broke the kiss, breathing hard.

 
“Don’t tempt me to misbehave, love. These past weeks have tested my patience sorely when I can think of nothing but how much I want to kiss you.”

  She smiled, pleased by his words, and relieved that his frustration had been as aggravating as her own.

  His gloved hands framed her face, and he stared down at her. “You are the most beautiful sight, Lady Georgina Anderson.”

  She gave a little snort of laughter. “I can imagine, with my hair blown all over, and a red nose, I don’t doubt.”

  He shook his head. “You look like a wild creature, like you belong here and were born to run free among these ruins. I can see that you’re happy here, and I won’t make you be anything that you’re not, love. I won’t ask you to be the Duchess of Rochford in the way my mother has been, but only to be you, and to be happy with me. Do you think those two things are possible?”

  Georgie stared up at him and touched his cheek, stroking the ragged scar there as his dark brows drew together.

  His voice was hesitant, rough. “I know it’s ugly. It won’t get any prettier either. Do you—”

  “Shut up, Rochford,” she said, and rose on her tiptoes to press a kiss to the tortured skin. Gently, she traced the line of his scar with her lips, from his hairline down to his mouth. He was very still, only his chest rising and falling with increasing speed.

  She pulled back and cupped his face within hers, as he had done. “I think I begin to see you, Rochford, and I see the beauty here.” She took one hand from his cheek and placed it over his heart. “If you can trust me with the rest, if you can let me in. I think I could trust in you too.”

  “I am trying,” he said, and the admission was uncertain, but there was hope in his eyes.

  “That’s all I ask.”

  “Georgie….”

  She heard the tone of his voice, knew what he wanted to ask her, and pressed her finger to his lips, silencing him. Not yet.

  “It’s my birthday next week,” she said. “Will you come for dinner, to celebrate with us?”

  He nodded, and though she saw disappointment in his gaze, he didn’t push her. When he replied, his words were warm. “I’d like that. And what would you desire for your birthday? I shall bring you a gift.”

  Georgie pursed her lips, considering this. “I would like you to choose something you think will please me.”

  He snorted. “That’s not much to go on.”

  She shrugged and gave him a teasing look from under her eyelashes. “How much depends on how well you know me, I suppose.”

  “Ah, a test. I see. And if I fail?” he asked lightly, though she heard his nervousness all the same.

  She smiled at him, not wanting him to fret. “If you fail, try, try again. You know that much, surely, Rochford?”

  “Alden,” he said, looking somewhat abashed. “My name is Alden.”

  Georgie watched him, wondering what he preferred. “It’s a nice name, but I’m not sure I can think of you as anything other than Rochford. Not yet, anyway. I shall grow accustomed if you like it better. Which do you prefer to hear?”

  “I like the way it sounds when you call me Rochford, but… I should like sometimes to hear you use my name.”

  Georgie considered his words and nodded. “Alden when we are alone, then,” she said softly. “Would you like that?”

  “I would like that,” he agreed, his gaze falling to her mouth again. “I like you.”

  She let out a breath of laughter and was about to let him kiss her again when a loud shout broke the moment.

  “Yappy dug! Rochford! What the devil are ye doing out in this perishing weather? Come to the castle and get warm.”

  Georgie sighed. “Damn you, Muir,” she muttered.

  Rochford gave her a rueful smile. “Don’t be too hard on him. He’s only protecting you from the wicked ogre, come to steal you away from home. It’s what brothers do, isn’t it?”

  She snorted at that. “Brothers are annoying from dawn till dusk. That’s what they do. Just wait until he’s courting,” she muttered crossly, but took Rochford’s arm and let him escort her back home.

  “Are you certain she didn’t mean diamonds?” Joe asked for the fifth time. “Everyone loves diamonds.”

  They sat in the private parlour of an inn by the fire, nursing a mug of ale each after an abortive shopping expedition. Rochford harrumphed and folded his arms.

  “Well, give me a clue. We’ve visited every jeweller between Wick and Inverness, and we need time enough to travel back again. It’s her birthday at the weekend.”

  “I am aware,” Rochford muttered, glowering. “She wants nothing expensive. Georgie knows I’m rich. That’s too easy. It’s a test, don’t you see? It must—”

  “It must be romantic and personal,” Joe said, frowning over his mug of ale.

  Rochford nodded.

  “Well, then. I can’t help you there,” Joe said with a shrug.

  “Why not?” Rochford protested, frowning at his valet. “I didn’t bring you all this way just to look decorative.”

  Joe shrugged. “No, you get that for free, but what I mean is, it has to be something significant for both of you. Something that no one else knows about. A shared memory that will make you smile in twenty years when you think of it again.”

  Rochford considered this and drained his tankard. He thought back over the time he’d spent with Georgie these past weeks, and before at Beverwyck.

  “What?” Joe asked.

  Rochford’s gaze drifted back to him, and he grinned.

  “What?” Joe demanded again, sitting up straighter.

  “I’ve got it,” Rochford said. He laughed, and hope to goodness he had guessed right, because he couldn’t help feeling the rest of his life was riding on it.

  Rochford paced Morven’s study. If the bloody man didn’t arrive soon, he’d have worn through the carpet. He wiped his clammy palms on his coat and raked a hand through his hair and then muttered a curse because Joe had made him swear he wouldn’t mess it up. Joe wasn’t here, though, sweating his bollocks off, waiting for Georgie’s father to appear.

  Finally, the door swung open, and Morven appeared with the customary scowl upon his face, Rochford had become used to seeing it over the past weeks.

  “You’re early,” he barked, glowering at Rochford. “She’s not here yet. You were told to come for dinner—”

  “I know. I came to speak with you first.”

  Morven’s face darkened further. “Oh, damn you. Must we do this now?”

  Rochford nodded, though his guts had twisted into a knot and the idea of putting it off a bit longer seemed less impossible than it had an hour ago.

  Muttering, Morven went and sat behind his desk and waved an unenthusiastic hand at him. “On ye go then. Gie it laldy.”

  Rochford stared, uncomprehending.

  “Gie it yer best shot,” Morven said irritably. “Yer from Cumbria, man. Can ye nae remember yer blood was Scottish way back when?”

  “I was not allowed to pick up the local dialect. My mother considered it ugly,” Rochford said, his lips quirking with amusement. “Ironic, really, as things turned out,” he added with a snort.

  “Well, at least ye dinnae blether on like some Englishmen, I suppose. I appreciate that much,” Morven said with a shrug.

  Rochford blinked, surprised to have been given anything positive. “Thank you.”

  “Take those words to heart, aye,” the earl warned him.

  “I will, because there’s not much to say,” Rochford said. He took a breath and said what he’d come to say. “I want to marry your daughter, Lady Georgina. I know you are aware of the advantages of my title and wealth, and I’ve also seen enough of this family to know they’re not worth a button to you.”

  “Ye catch on quick, Sassenach, I’ll give ye that.”

  Rochford snorted. “I know she could marry someone else, someone nicer and kinder and more patient, and prettier, by God. But she’ll find no one else who will look after her like I will. I be
lieve I understand her now, the things that are important to her, and I will hold those things dear, and make sure she always has them.”

  “Fine words,” Morven said, nodding. “But what are these things, the things she values?”

  “You, her family, above all things. She’ll need to see you often, and so we must spend a fair amount of time here, if you can stand it. We have the house in Wick, so she may be comfortable and close by.”

  “But so we’re not on your doorstep.”

  Rochford shrugged. “You can’t blame me for that, but you’ll need to come to Cumbria too and visit her at Mulcaster.”

  “If ye can stand it,” Morven said dryly.

  Rochford rubbed the back of his neck and nodded. “She’ll want society. Not all the time. She likes the peace of the countryside, she’ll be happiest there, but she’ll want to visit her friends, to go to parties and the theatre during the season.”

  “Your worst nightmare, aye?” Morven said, sitting back in his chair and studying Rochford. “All those people staring at ye, whispering and dredging up the past.”

  Rochford shrugged. “I’m used to it. I’d prefer to protect her from such… discomfort, but it comes with me. I can only hope in time people will grow used to seeing us and tire of repeating themselves when they gain no reaction.”

  “They will, and Georgie’s nae milk and water miss, as I think you ken by now. She’ll nae need protection, though ye may need to hold her back if she thinks anyone’s disrespected ye. She’s a temper on her.”

  Rochford’s lips twitched. “I am aware,” he said softly.

  “Aye,” Morven said, watching him closely. “Reckon so. What else, then?”

  “A family of her own, a home, a place to belong, and a husband who will honour and protect her, and always take her side.”