The Mistletoe Dare by Emma V Leech

Chapter 1

 

Dearest Georgie,

It’s Christmas at last!

You know what you must do.

―Excerpt of a letter from Lady Catherine ‘Cat’ Barrington (daughter of Lucian and Matilda Barrington, The Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu) to Lady Georgina Anderson (daughter of Gordon and Ruth Anderson, The Earl and Countess of Morven).

 

7th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

Lady Georgina Anderson gave a little squeal of excitement as the huge London residence belonging to her godparents finally came into view. Beverwyck, home to the Duke and Duchess of Bedwin, appeared before them in all its unapologetic grandeur.

“We’re here!” she exclaimed with unconcealed delight. She felt like a child, jittery with excitement for everything to come.

Her maid let out a heartfelt sigh of relief.

“Thank the Lord,” she grumbled. “’Tis nae wonder if my behind is flat as a pancake. I lost all feeling two days ago.”

Georgie shook her head and ignored the comment, as she had ignored the greater part of Meg’s grumbling and complaint on the slow and lengthy journey from Scotland to England. It was easier than in her parents’ day, at least. Parts of the journey could be done by train now, which meant it was a deal quicker than it had ever been before, but Meg was a homebody and, given the opportunity, would never even set foot outside the castle gardens at Wildsyde. Though it was one of the smallest properties owned by Georgie’s father, the Earl of Morven, it was home and where the family preferred to spend most of their time. Georgie loved it dearly, but she also hungered for more, for entertainment and amusement, and an absence of her three overbearing older brothers. She loved them, like Wildsyde, despite their many, many faults, but the idea of an entire three weeks without them and in the company of her friends was nothing short of miraculous.

She slipped her hand into the fur muff about her neck and touched the little slip of paper nestled there. Her heart skipped. She had carried the scrap about for months now, ever since the summer when she and Mama had visited the Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu. Matilda was one of Mama’s dearest friends and her youngest daughter, little Cat, with her big brothers away from home, had been bored. No doubt the two handsome devils were cutting a swathe through the female population somewhere and leaving a trail of broken hearts. Well, perhaps not Philip. The eldest was much like his father; he kept his thoughts and feelings to himself and was scrupulously discreet. Georgie suspected he wasn’t half as perfect as he appeared. She hoped not, anyway. Still, in the absence of her brothers, Georgie had kept the little girl amused, and had inevitably given in to her demand to take a dare from the wretched hat.

Kiss a man under the mistletoe.

It was a simple enough dare on the face of it. Or at least it would have been if there was a single man of her acquaintance that Georgie wanted to kiss. And the devil of it was the dare had a time limit, for if she did not complete it this Christmas, she’d have to wait an entire year to try again. The chances of her finding anyone to kiss at Wildsyde, where her family always spent Christmas, were slim to none. Of course, she could cheat and kiss her father or one of her brothers on the cheek, but that didn’t feel right. In desperation, she had confided in her mother, who had understood at once. Well, she would, seeing as it had been a dare that had propelled her mama to do something as outrageous as propose to a complete stranger. Still, that had worked out beautifully. So, Mama had persuaded her father to allow Georgie to spend Christmas with the Duke and Duchess of Bedwin in London, where there would be society—and men—aplenty. Trust in the dare, Mama had said. It will lead you where you need to go. As if there were magic in the writing. Silly, obviously, but… Georgie shivered all the same.

The carriage rolled to a halt, and a footman opened the door, putting down the step for her and moving to offer his hand. Before he could, Georgie had leapt down, running into the grand entrance hall with a cry of delight as she saw the duchess and two of her daughters waiting to greet her.

“Auntie!” Georgie exclaimed, throwing herself into the duchess’s arms. Though they were not blood relations, Prue had been Auntie to all the Anderson children and would allow nothing more formal.

“Darling girl,” the duchess said, hugging her tight. “I am so happy to have you here.” Georgie straightened and looked down at Prue, chagrined to discover that she was a full head taller than both her aunt and her daughters.

“How well you look, Georgie.”

She turned towards the soft voice and smiled at Lady Rosamund. At eighteen, she had turned into a lovely young woman with dark hair like her father and thickly lashed brown eyes. “I am well, and you are a beauty, Ozzie. Whatever has happened since I saw you last?”

Ozzie laughed good-naturedly and gave a shrug. “I grew an inch and filled out a bit,” she admitted.

“Only an inch, you lucky thing,” Georgie lamented with a quirk of her lips. “I wish I could shrink a little.”

Her mother, Ruth, was a tall, big-boned woman and her father, Gordy, an enormous bear of a man. This was excellent for his sons, who had followed in his footsteps. Sadly, Georgie had as well and was far too tall for a woman and built with statuesque proportions that either intimidated men or attracted entirely the wrong attention.

“You look quite magnificent,” Aunt Prue said sternly. “Shrinking, indeed! I should think not. The more of you there is, the better.”

“You can’t have too much of a good thing,” Ozzie said with a giggle, taking her arm.

Georgie pulled a face. “Actually, I think you can, but I’ll take the compliment anyway.”

Prue and Ozzie laughed and bore her off up the stairs. “Come along. Let us get you settled. Everyone is arriving today, and you’ll want time to wash and change.”

“And eat,” Georgie said desperately, clutching at her stomach. “The last stop we made seems an age ago.”

Prue nodded. “We’ll have tea and cakes sent to your room.”

“Oh, heaven,” Georgie said with a happy sigh, and followed her godmother up the stairs.

Alden Seymour, the Duke of Rochford, looked across the carriage at his companion and resisted the urge to sigh. A more unlikely pair of friends would be difficult to imagine. Sprawled across the seat opposite him lounged Jules Adolphus, the Marquess of Blackstone. At seven and twenty, Rochford was five years older than Rochford. That was hardly extraordinary, but where Blackstone possessed a face and figure handsome enough that young women stopped and stared, Rochford did not. At least, yes, they stopped and stared, but not because he was handsome. Nicknamed the Monster of Mulcaster Castle by those local to his ancestral home, people did not stare at Rochford for his beauty.

Standing six feet and seven inches high and built with all the finesse of the castle he’d inherited along with his title in the wilds of Cumbria, he was an intimidating figure, and he knew it. Add to his hulking stature a deep, ugly scar that cut through his lip and over his cheek and he cut quite a grotesque figure. The scar narrowly missed his eye before travelling up into his hairline, leaving a patch where the hair did not grow properly. It also twisted his mouth into a permanent sneer. Then there was the pockmarked skin from a severe bout of measles that had almost killed him as a boy. The results were hardly pretty. He’d heard young women snigger and comment that his was a face only a mother could love, but even his own mother couldn’t stand the sight of him, which showed how bloody much they knew. Not that he cared. He was a duke, he was wealthy, and people had to suffer his company whether or not they liked it. Mostly, they didn’t.

He had run into Blackstone during a tavern brawl two years ago. It had been a low dive with a lower clientele and a place the young man had no business going. Recognising Bedwin’s heir and realising the duke would owe him a debt if he hauled his son out of trouble, Rochford had stepped in. He had assumed he’d escort the young cub home, ensure Bedwin knew about the favour he owed, and be done with it, but much to his surprise he’d discovered Blackstone to be an entertaining companion and they had caroused together until the early hours. They’d been friends ever since, though why Blackstone continued to seek him out, Rochford could not fathom.

Blackstone stirred on the seat, stretching and yawning. “Are we there yet?”

“Yes, so you’d best straighten yourself up. You look like you slept in your clothes,” Rochford observed in disgust.

“I did,” Blackstone replied, smirking.

Rochford raised an eyebrow. “And do you wish for your darling mama to know it?”

Blackstone pursed his lips. “A fair point,” he admitted, and set about straightening his attire. He glowered a little at Rochford. “Why aren’t you crumpled?”

“Because I don’t slouch and sprawl like an indolent cat.”

“No, true enough. You’re too uptight. That’s your trouble, Rochford. One day you’ll remove that giant stick from your arse and feel a deal better for it.”

Rochford returned his attention to the passing scenery. “Ah, yes. Now I remember why I keep you around. Such an intelligent and witty conversationalist.”

Blackstone snorted as he tried to retie his cravat, using his reflection in the window. “It’s too damned early for wit and intelligence. Give a fellow a chance to wake up.”

“It’s ten thirty, you idle fop. Hardly the crack of dawn.”

“Too early when you’ve not been to bed,” Blackstone grumbled. “Why aren’t you tired, damn you?”

Rochford shrugged. “Stamina.”

“Stamina, my eye. You’re not normal. Made a deal with the devil, I reckon,” Blackstone grumbled, but halted any further observations about supernatural dealings as the carriage drew up outside his home.

The two friends made their way up the steps of the imposing residence and Rochford wondered once again what on earth had possessed him to accept Blackstone’s invitation. The next three weeks promised to be full of gaiety and entertainment, goodwill to all men and festive cheer, all of which were things that would usually have him running in the opposite direction at speed. Rochford did not like gaiety. He wasn’t the least bit good humoured, and he preferred ill will because then he knew where he stood, dammit. Yet the idea of returning to the vast castle in the wilds of Cumbria that he called home had sent a chill through him, the like of which he’d never known. It had made him feel hollow and cold, and a good many emotions he was not about to analyse. So here he was, with no one to blame but himself, so he’d better bloody well endure it like a man.

Once Georgie had bathed and changed, eaten two large slices of cake, and washed it down with several cups of tea, she felt much more herself, though a headache nagged at her temples still. The journey had been long and fatiguing, and she promised herself a good night’s sleep and a lie in tomorrow. She sent Meg off with strict instructions to have a nap before she did anything else, aware she would suffer the consequences if her maid did not get some rest before she needed to get ready for dinner later. Meg had a clever hand for hair and was the only one who seemed able to contain Georgie’s riot of thick, dark curls with any success. However, she could be ruthless and a little vindictive with hairpins, particularly if she was in a bad mood.

Meg had informed her that several guests had arrived, including Evie Knight, one of Georgie’s best friends. She had not seen Evie since the spring and was looking forward to catching up with her. Not least, she was on pins to set eyes on the mysterious Louis César de Montluc, the Comte de Villen, about whom she’d heard so much. His illegitimate half-brother, Nicolas Alexandre Demarteau, had married the duke and duchess’s eldest daughter, Eliza, causing a terrific stir among the ton. The duke and duchess had disregarded this, welcoming Nic into the family and, along with him, the comte.

Evie had confided how she had befriended Louis César, a circumstance which Georgie found both scandalous and intriguing. That Evie, an unmarried lady only just turned eighteen, had for the past two years apparently been a friend and confidante to a man many years her senior, seemed astonishing. Georgie could not help but wonder why Lady Helena had allowed it, but then she was a sensible woman and presumably she knew best. Whenever anyone but Evie wrote and mentioned the Frenchman, though, all they could speak of was how dreadfully beautiful he was, how deliciously seductive. Phrases like fallen angel, and thehandsomest man in the country, perhaps even the world, were repeated often, yet Evie never mentioned him in such a way, insisting they were friends and nothing more. It was all most enthralling.

Making her way down the stairs, Georgie headed towards the library. It was her and Evie’s favourite place at Beverwyck, and she knew Evie would go there to find her when she arrived. A footman had informed her no one else had yet come down, so she would have the plush library all to herself whilst she waited. She pushed open the heavy oak door, inhaling the scent of the grand room as it enveloped her. It was a subtle blend of old books and cigar smoke, polish, and centuries of power and knowledge. Though it was a grand room of vast proportions, with the higher shelves accessed by galleried walkways, it still felt cosy. This was partly thanks to the way some of the doubled sided shelves cut into the room, creating smaller, private spaces. There were snug little nooks to curl up, and window seats where you could look out over the expansive gardens, never suspecting you were in the city at all. She could hear the crackle of a fire blazing in the enormous fireplace and could hardly wait to find an interesting title to sit down with and warm her toes. Suffused with good humour, Georgie shrugged off her tiredness and hurried towards the section she wanted—the novels—and collided with a huge, dark object.

Georgie was not given to hysterics. She had three large, intimidating brothers, and could hold her own with all of them. However, expecting to find herself alone and walking headlong into a stranger was daunting to begin with. Looking up and finding a bear of a man staring at her with cold grey eyes the colour of slate and a face that was hardly friendly was enough to make her give a shriek of alarm.

She stumbled back, tripped on her own skirts, and fell hard on her backside.

“Ouch!”

The man looked down at her in silence, his expression about as warm and welcoming as the Loch of Wester in February.

Georgie took him in, noting quickly the quality of his dress, his bearing, and the large cabochon ruby glinting on his little finger. A guest. A wealthy and powerful guest. One she’d just made a complete fool of herself in front of.

Still, he was hardly acting the gentleman, staring at her in disdain rather than offering her a hand up.

“If you wouldn’t mind?” she said, her tone irritable as she held out a hand to him.

He quirked a thick dark eyebrow, the sneer at his lips leading her to expect a derisive comment. She was not disappointed.

“Are you certain you can bear it?” he asked, and his deep voice rumbled through her.

“Bear what?” she asked in confusion.

“The touch of my hand, as you damn near broke your neck in your haste to run away.”

“I wasn’t running away, you—you merely startled me, that’s all.”

He snorted, and the contemptuous curl of his lip made her too-ready temper spark to life.

“If you go about lurking in dark corners, I wonder you don’t expect such a reaction,” she retorted. “Perhaps you did it on purpose?”

“You think it my habit to linger in the shadows and frighten maidens? Ah, yes. I see what manner of man you have painted me as. No doubt I eat small children for breakfast?”

“I never said that!” Georgie exclaimed in outrage, wondering why he was so damned touchy. She was the one sprawled on her backside and looking like a fool. Oh, what was the use? She scrambled to her knees and got up without his help, brushing her skirts smooth with sharp, agitated movements. Glaring at the big brute, she lifted her chin and hurried past him towards the shelves reserved for novels. Her heart was still beating too fast, but Georgie did her best to calm herself, making a show of perusing the titles on offer but far too aware she was being watched. His gaze seemed to burn her back through her gown, and she lasted precisely two minutes before she reacted, turning to meet his gaze. Instead of looking guilty for staring, or at least looking away and pretending he hadn’t been doing anything of the sort, the arrogant devil just continued to watch her.

“Was there something you wanted, sir?” she demanded, folding her arms. Goodness, but he was a mountainous size, and she was used to being around hulking Scotsmen. She realised now that what she had believed to be a sneer was a scar that scored deep into his cheek and tugged his lip out of line. He wore a beard, the hair thick and dark, and she wondered if he did it to cover his skin, which was badly pockmarked. He was not a handsome man, but certainly compelling.

His grey eyes never wavered from her face.

“Being alone with me is inadvisable. You ought to leave,” he observed coolly. “Or have you no concept of polite manners?”

Georgie could not help the snort of amusement that escaped her. “Polite manners? This from a man who won’t offer a woman his hand to help her up.”

He shrugged, unimpressed. “I would have offered. I was only ensuring you wouldn’t swoon if your dainty hand touched mine.”

“Nonsense. You were enjoying looking down on me and feeling superior.”

“I wasn’t, but I might now, considering I have never in my life met a more ill-mannered, sharp-tongued harpy.”

Georgie’s mouth fell open in shock. She was used to trading insults with her brothers, but for a man she didn’t know from Adam to speak to her so…!

“You should leave,” he said again, his voice firm. “For I’ll not have you ruined and the blame laid at my feet, if you’re considering trapping a rich husband.”

Georgie closed her mouth with a snap before her jaw hit the floor in outrage.

“Trap you,” she repeated faintly, “into marriage?”

She gave a startled laugh before she could think better of it, and then tried her best to smother the next, and then the urge to laugh was so strong she could not help but give into it. Georgie laughed and laughed, clutching at her sides until tears rolled down her cheeks.

She tried to stop. Truly, she did. Except every time she looked up and saw his expression of disgust and the icy glare in his eyes, it set off another bout and she went off into whoops.

“When you’ve quite finished,” he said, sounding as if he’d happily pick her up and throw her out of the nearest window, given the opportunity.

“I beg your p-pardon, sir,” she stammered, doing her best to smother her laughter, but her voice quavered with amusement.

“Your grace,” he said, growling the words with obvious relish.

Georgie blinked, stunned into silence. The word grace and this man did not belong in the same sentence. Wait. Your grace. Your grace? He was a duke? Little by little, the colour leached from her face. She felt it go, along with any vestige of warmth she’d regained since she’d arrived at Beverwyck. Lud. She’d been in town for five minutes and she’d insulted a duke. Oh, good heavens. Her mother would kill her.

“Do run along,” he said, his grey eyes glinting with a look that suggested she ought to do as he said, or else she would not like the consequences.

Finally intimidated, but refusing to be entirely cowed, Georgie turned back to the shelf, snatched up the nearest title, and stalked past him with her nose in the air.

Rochford let out an uneven breath as he heard the library door close. He raked a hand through his thick hair and glowered at the bookshelf in front of him as if it had personally offended him.

Damn her.

He had not expected to feel at home here, in this place of happy families and friends and warm welcomes. Bedwin and his duchess had always acted kindly towards him, no doubt hoping he’d be of use to them at some point, or perhaps in gratitude for saving their son’s neck. To discover that even here they viewed him as a monster, however, was hard to bear. He’d assumed Blackwood’s parents would have warned all their guests of his presence, no doubt apologising and asking them to endure his company as best they could. Well, the warning had not gone far enough for that young beauty.

When she had hurried around the corner, almost throwing herself into his arms, for a moment his breath had caught. It had barely lasted a second, yet he could recall every damned detail. She was glorious. She was extraordinarily tall for a woman, and her skin was impossibly pale, like alabaster. Her dark curly hair had tickled his cheek and the delicious scent of vanilla had invaded his senses. Her long, thick eyelashes swept down over eyes the colour of whisky, and her body… God. Statuesque was hardly an adequate description. Desire uncoiled deep in his gut as he remembered the lush curves of her hips and full breasts. Abruptly, he made himself remember the look in her eyes as she’d seen his face, the shock and revulsion.

Remember that, you damned fool.

A woman like that might marry him for his title, or his money, but she’d need a bloody strong stomach to endure it.