The Mistletoe Dare by Emma V Leech
Chapter 2
August,
For the love of God, leave your witless female relations to cause havoc by themselves if they must. They don’t want you interfering and tying yourself in knots over their dreadful scrapes. Keeping them out of trouble will only give you a nervous collapse. It’s your darling mama’s responsibility to keep them in line and, bearing in mind she’s the worst of the lot, you ought to do yourself a favour and wash your hands of them. They’ll all be happier, and you’ll likely live longer.
Come and stay with me for a bit. I want to show off my wife. If you’ve a lick of sense, you’ll find one for yourself and settle down. I highly recommend it.
―Excerpt of a letter from The Most Hon’ble Lawrence Grenville, The Marquess of Bainbridge to The Right Hon’ble August Lane Fox.
7th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.
Evie laughed as she looked down at the note, slipped under her door.
Evie, you little twit. I would never lie to you. Surely you know that.
Meet me in the library at midnight tonight with the monstrous dress. For God’s sake, make sure no one sees you.
Really, Louis César was foolish if he thought he could make her believe she was a great beauty. She had enough examples of feminine perfection among her friends and family to know what men considered beautiful. Even gorgeous Georgie did not meet the ton’s exacting requirements, simply because she was too tall, whereas Evie was too short, and plain, and plump.
Evie had to admit she had improved a great deal over the past months, but she had a weakness for sweet things, and she did not have the stature to carry off the extra pounds that seemed to accumulate with startling ease. The fact had never much bothered her before, though. She had always been at ease in her own skin. Until recently. Though Evie made light of it, the words of the sought-after modiste, Madame Blanchet’s, about her weight had undermined her confidence and made her unhappy. So much so that she’d even taken the wretched woman’s advice and begun following the lowering diet she had recommended. According to Madame, if she stuck to it, the weight would fall off her in no time. What she didn’t say was that the diet would make feel Evie wretched and light-headed, but she had lost eight pounds so far, so perhaps it was worth it. She wondered if Louis César would notice the change in her.
It had been months since she’d seen him, and then only once or twice during the summer, and she worried he was avoiding her. They corresponded regularly, at least twice a week, but she had noticed his letters changing. They were always amusing and full of news and gossip, but he did not confide in her as much as he once had, and that troubled her. He had no close friends that she knew of and, since his brother had married, he spent more time alone than was good for him. It had been a tremendous relief to her when he had finally given in and accepted the duchess’s invitation to come for Christmas, for Evie could not bear the thought of him spending the festive season all by himself. Well, whatever the problem was, she would discover it over the coming weeks. Somehow, she had to find what made poor, dear Louis so unhappy, and fix it.
“Evie!” Georgie squealed with delight at the sight of her friend and ran down the last few steps to haul her into an embrace
“Georgie!” Evie’s muffled voice exclaimed from Georgie’s generous bosom. “Can’t breathe!”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Georgie let her go, and returned a sheepish grin.
Evie laughed, a little breathless, and then hugged Georgie again. “It’s lovely to see you. My, but you look well, so….”
“Big?” Georgie suggested sourly. She ought to be used to towering over all the other delicate young ladies by now, but though she loved all her friends dearly, they made her feel like an Amazon. They were all so petite and ladylike, and she… wasn’t.
“I was going to say beautiful,” Evie scolded, and then gave a wistful sigh. “And I’d happily steal a couple of extra inches from you, so don’t go lamenting them on my account.”
“You, my lovely Evie, are small and perfectly formed,” Georgie said firmly. Evie might not have been a classical beauty, but her goodness shone from her, and she had the most startling green eyes, thickly lashed and so expressive. Evie gave her usual snort of amusement, her response to any kind of compliment about her appearance, and Georgie shook her head. “You are, you know. Any man would be lucky to have you.”
Evie shrugged and took her arm. “Yes, but would I be lucky to have them? That’s the trouble. Oh, Georgie, I know it’s dreadful of me to say so, but it’s so hard to find anyone of interest. It’s not like I’m short of offers, but I know most of them are in love with my enormous dowry, not with me. They just seem so false, and you know I cannot abide people who say one thing and mean another.”
Georgie nodded, understanding the problem all too well. “It’s impossible to get to know any man when you cannot spend any proper time with them. At the parties they are all on their best behaviour and perfectly charming. What are they like when they wake up with a head cold and find the cat’s been sick in their slippers, though? That’s the real test.”
Evie spluttered with amusement, her eyes glittering. “Oh, we should arrange something of the sort, like those fairy tales where the hero has to complete five tasks to win the princess’s hand in marriage.”
“Oh, yes. What else should we ask of them?” Georgie asked, enjoying herself thoroughly now she was with her friend again.
“Umm. Oh, I know. How they react if a beautiful woman goes past and gives them a come-hither look.”
“Oh, yes, because if they go hither, they are definitely out,” Georgie said, nodding.
“Exactly.” Evie grinned.
Georgie looked up to see the duchess gesturing to her from the other side of the hall. “Come along. Everyone is waiting in the drawing room. We’re dreadfully late.”
They hurried to where everyone waited, drinks in hand, smiling and greeting each other with familiar warmth. Georgie saw the glowering duke she had run into so disastrously earlier. He was standing silently, somehow apart from everyone, even though he stood with Jules, the Marquess of Blackstone. Jules lifted his hand to wave at her and Georgie smiled at him, refusing to catch the duke’s eyes, and then her breath caught, and she almost stumbled as another man appeared in the door.
“Mercy,” she whispered, stopping in her tracks, unable to do anything less than gape in astonishment. Whoever he was, he was utterly gorgeous. Tall and lithe with broad shoulders and thick dark hair, his blue eyes were the colour of an exotic sea. He was effortlessly stylish, his evening clothes moulded to his impressive physique and showing long, long legs. Turning towards them, his sensuous mouth tilted up at the corners and his blue eyes sparkled with warmth.
“Louis!” Evie exclaimed in a whisper, making as if she would run across the room to him.
Shocked, Georgie held on to her, giving her a warning glance. Evie coloured, but gave a small nod, and they moved sedately towards him. The man’s gaze followed Evie as she came closer, full of amusement.
“Bonne soirée, ma petite,” he said to Evie, the words spoken quietly enough that only she and Georgie could hear the far too familiar greeting.
Georgie shivered as the sound of his deep voice swept over her. Good heavens, the Comte de Villen was everything everyone had said about him.
His azure gaze swept over Evie, and a slight frown creased his brow. “Are you well, Miss Knight?”
“Of course,” Evie said, beaming at him. “All the better for seeing you, you dreadful man. Where have you been? It’s been months.”
Before the comte could answer, the butler appeared and announced that dinner was ready. Evie sighed in frustration, narrowing her eyes at the comte.
“Don’t think you’ve escaped,” she warned him. “I want to know everything you’ve been up to.”
The man’s lips twitched, but he replied with apparent sincerity. “Oui, Mademoiselle. I know you do.”
“Oh, Lou—Monsieur Le Comte, please allow me to introduce my dear friend, Lady Georgina Anderson. Georgie, this is Louis César de Montluc, Comte de Villen.”
“Enchantée,” he said, bowing over her hand. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady.”
Georgie blushed and curtsied, quite unable to withstand his proximity, those blue eyes and that devastating French accent all at once. She could not think of a single intelligent thing to say, so for once she was sensible and kept her mouth shut.
“You here again, Georgie?”
George turned at the familiar voice and grinned at Jules. “Good evening, Jules, and yes, like the proverbial bad penny, I’ve turned up again.”
“Good show. It’s been too dashed quiet here of late, since my two dreadful sisters have married and left home. We need someone to cause a bit of chaos, liven things up a bit.”
Georgie glared at him, wishing she could kick the devil for speaking so. Embarrassed, she shot a nervous smile at the comte. “He’s only funning, monsieur. The marquess has a remarkably peculiar sense of humour,” she assured him, before the man thought she was an ill-mannered hoyden.
“No, I don’t. You always liven things up by doing something dreadful, you know you do,” Jules protested.
“Be quiet,” she gritted out through her teeth, before turning back to the comte, and Evie, who was struggling not to laugh, well aware of Georgie’s mortification.
“May I have the honour, Miss Knight?” the comte asked Evie, offering his arm to take her into dinner.
“You may,” Evie replied, her cheeks dimpling as she smiled up at him.
“Well then, looks like you’re stuck with me, George, old girl,” Jules said, smirking at her. He stuck his elbow out at her and Georgie sighed, taking it as there were no better options.
“I’d forgotten how annoying you were,” she grumbled as Jules led her through to the dining room.
“Funny, that’s what my sisters say whenever they come back to visit,” he remarked, winking at her.
Georgie rolled her eyes and then noticed ahead of them that the ill-mannered duke she’d encountered was escorting Aunt Prue.
“Who is that awful man, Jules?” she demanded.
Jules laughed as he saw who she was gesturing towards. “The Duke of Rochford, and he’s an ill-tempered devil, I’ll grant you, though not as dreadful as he makes out.”
“I beg to differ,” she muttered crossly.
Jules gave her an alert look. “You know him?”
“No, but I ran into him in the library earlier and he was horribly rude to me.”
“Why? What did you do?”
Georgie’s mouth fell open for the second time that day. “What did I do?” she repeated in outrage.
“Well? Out with it,” Jules persisted.
“I did nothing!” Georgie said, keeping her voice low and urgent, for they were almost in the dining room. “He was lurking in a dark corner of the library, and I didn’t know he was there. I walked into him—which is akin to walking into a brick wall, I might add—and the impact threw me off my feet. There I was, sprawled on the floor in front of him, utterly humiliated and all he did was stare at me like I was something unpleasant he’d stepped in.”
“Really?” Jules said, looking thoroughly entertained.
“Yes, really,” she said, flushing with embarrassment as she remembered. “He didn’t even offer me a hand to get up.”
“Why not? What did he say?”
Georgie rolled her eyes at him. “He said he would have offered, but he wanted to ensure I wouldn’t swoon at the thought of touching him, or some such nonsense.”
A thoughtful expression flitted over Jules’ face as he considered this.
“What?” she demanded, but they lost any further chance at conversation as they had to find their places.
“I’ll speak to you another time, George,” Jules promised cryptically.
Frustrated and curious, Georgie had to be satisfied… until she turned to discover she was seated next to the Duke of Rochford.
Rochford smirked inwardly as he saw the young woman look at the place cards, scowl, and look up at him.
Yes, my pretty little dove, they’ve sat you next to the mangy cur and there’s damn all you can do about it.
He watched, admitting himself impressed, as she gathered herself, put up her chin and moved to her place.
“Good evening, your grace,” she said with impeccable politeness, drawing out the honorific with such emphasis that he wanted to smile. She curtsied, offering him a peek of her splendid décolletage and, for a moment, Rochford forgot anything resembling manners, too riveted by the sight and a lurid daydream about burying his face there. She looked up, catching him ogling her like some panting, overheated schoolboy. He felt bad about it until he remembered the way she’d sprung away from him like he’d the pox. Anger and resentment overtook any feelings of guilt and he leered at her, ensuring she was not in doubt she’d been right in thinking him a vile monster. She stiffened and refused to look at him again.
Rochford endured the evening, as he’d known would be inevitable. Everyone here was related or an old friend of the family, and the atmosphere was warm and convivial. The conversation flitted past him, witty and fast-paced and covering many eclectic topics. But Rochford let the noise wash over him. It was always this way, with him on the outside even if he was in the centre of a crowd. Once upon a time, it had bothered him. Once upon a time, he’d been fool enough to try to belong. No longer. With an inward sigh, he wondered if he might have been better off alone at Mulcaster than sitting through weeks of evenings like this. A chill ran down his spine as he considered returning to the castle alone. No. No, this was far from perfect, but it was better than that.
“—then Rochford stepped in and saved my sorry arse.”
“Jules! Language,” the duchess scolded, though her eyes danced with mirth.
Jules grinned at her, not looking the least bit chastised. “Sorry, Mama, but it’s true, I swear. Isn’t it, Rochford?”
Rochford glanced up, discomforted, to find everyone at the table looking at him.
“If it’s coming from your lips, I highly doubt it,” he muttered, concentrating on cutting up a slice of roast beef.
A murmur of laughter rippled around the room.
“A fair remark, but all the same, they outnumbered me five to one, and the fellows were cut-throats to a man, I swear. I thought my number was up, I don’t mind telling you.”
“Oh, Jules, have a care for your poor mother!” the duchess said with agitation, swiping up her wineglass and taking an unladylike swallow.
“There, there, Prue. He survived and was a deal wiser for the experience,” Bedwin said, from the other end of the table.
“Anyway, Rochford arrived like an incoming tide,” Jules said, apparently enjoying himself enormously. “For a moment, I wasn’t certain what side he was on, as he didn’t look exactly friendly himself, but then… then… he picked the first fellow up, over his head, and flung him halfway across the room. I swear to God, I’ve never seen the like before or since.”
The entire room fell silent, gawping at Rochford, and his skin prickled with unease. Well, let them look. They looked and saw a great beast capable of violence and destruction, and why not? He was capable of such behaviour, right enough. Fighting their expectations certainly didn’t get him anywhere.
“What happened next, Jules?” his sister, Lady Rosamund, asked with wide eyes.
“The other fellows took one look at Rochford and ran away,” Jules said, laughing. “So I bought him a drink to thank him for his help, and the surly devil took a liking to me.”
“I never did. You just won’t take no for an answer,” Rochford grumbled.
“Ah, there he is, my dearest pal.” Jules gestured affectionately across the table towards him.
Rochford shook his head in exasperation and returned his attention to his dinner. A moment later, he felt the unmistakable sensation of being scrutinised, one which he would usually ignore. People always stared at him and whispered to each other, and he was past caring what they thought. Yet this time the sensation nagged, and he turned to discover the woman at his side studying him. He glowered back at her.
“Thank you,” she said.
Rochford sat back, surprised. “For?” he demanded, wondering if it was a trick.
“For keeping Jules out of trouble,” she said, and Rochford felt a surge of resentment for the familiar way she spoke about his friend.
He wondered if perhaps there was an understanding between them and had to batter down an unwelcome flood of bitterness. She was beautiful and well-bred, no doubt an ideal bride for the handsome young man. Blackwood had told him she was Lady Georgina Anderson, daughter of the Earl of Morven, though whoever had the raising of her had been wise enough to work the Scottish accent from her speech. The ton did not tolerate such differences, like a face that was scarred and twisted. Irritated by her gratitude, though he did not understand why, Rochford turned to look at her.
“He was a damned fool for going to such a place.”
She stared at him, narrowing her eyes. “Perhaps he was. I was only thanking you for your kindness in helping him.”
“I didn’t do it to be kind.”
Her gaze upon him was steady. He had to give her credit for that, for unless they were whispering about him from a safe distance, most women would not meet his eye.
“Then why?”
“I knew Bedwin would owe me a debt of gratitude if I saved his heir’s neck.”
He watched her, waiting for her contemptuous expression, when she realised he’d done it for his own gain and not out of any sense of fair play.
“Well,” she said, after a long moment. “Whatever your motivation, I am grateful for it.” She returned her attention to her dinner and did not speak another word to him all evening.
