The Mistletoe Dare by Emma V Leech
Chapter 3
Laurie,
I may well take you up on your invitation—not the one about finding a wife. I’m uncertain my nerves could stand more female company at the moment. If ever I marry, I shall find the sweetest natured, most docile and compliant female that I can. I do not care if she is plain, or fat or thin, so long as she is amiable company and does not create scandals nor make things explode in my face.
―Excerpt of a letter from The Right Hon’ble August Lane Fox to The Most Hon’ble Lawrence Grenville, The Marquess of Bainbridge.
Evening of the 7th of December 1840, Beverwyck, London.
Evie hesitated at the top of the stairs as she heard muffled voices from below. Footmen spoke in hushed tones before walking off and going about their business. She held her breath, cursing to herself as her stomach rumbled ominously. Drat the thing, if her stomach made a racket and got her caught, that would just be typical of her luck. She’d barely eaten a thing at dinner, which had been utter misery as she’d watched all the mouth-watering courses come and go, but she was determined to do her best. Louis had promised to fix the horrid pink gown she was wearing, or burn it, but if she were just a few pounds lighter, it would make the job much easier, surely?
Evie waited until she was certain the servants had carried on their way, then picked up her skirts and ran down the steps, the material billowing and rustling as she went. She could not help but grin as she ran through the darkened corridors and rooms on the way to the library. There were stunningly beautiful women of all ages who would go to extreme lengths to be alone with Louis César and here she was, plain little Evie Knight, meeting him in private. Of course, there was nothing the least bit romantic in their meeting, but it amused her to imagine their reaction should any of those women discover it. Not that they ever would. No one must ever know, for it would be a shocking scandal and then poor Louis would have to marry her. That would never do, though she wished she could find a nice, kind woman who would love and care for him as he deserved. She had tried, but no one ever seemed to be quite right. Yet, anyway. But surely there must be someone for him. Georgie, for example, was very kind and loving, and the sight of Louis had certainly made an impression on her Evie remembered her friend’s stunned expression with amusement.
She quickened her steps as she reached the library door and, with one last furtive look over her shoulder, she slipped inside.
It was dark, apart from the warm glow cast from the hearth, where a fire burned low.
“Louis?” she whispered. As there was no answer, she moved towards the fire to wait for him. A few minutes later, the ornate grandfather clock that stood in the entrance hall chimed the hour as the door opened silently and a tall figure entered the room.
“Louis!” Evie exclaimed, and ran to him, hugging him tight.
“Evie, you little wretch,” he said with a sigh as his arms closed around her. “You nearly did that earlier in front of everyone and set them all talking.”
“I know, I am sorry,” she said sheepishly. “Only it’s been months and months, and I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too, ma petite.” He hugged her briefly before letting her go. “Now, let us have a proper look at this offensive gown and see what we can do with it.”
Evie waited, holding onto a chair as she felt a little lightheaded. She was curious to know what on earth he had in mind for the ugly gown she was wearing. Louis crouched by the fire to light a taper and then went and lit the lamps. When he was satisfied there was enough light, he turned back to her. As they had done earlier, his brows drew together. Well, it was an ugly gown.
“Evie? Are you certain you are quite well?” he asked, moving closer to her.
“Yes, of course,” she said, impatient to know his opinion of her horrid pink dress. “Now, what do you think of it? Isn’t it vile?”
She turned in a circle to give him a good look and gasped as the room tilted.
“Evie!”
Strong arms caught her around the waist, and Louis hauled her against his muscular, warm body. Evie gasped in shock, still too dazed to respond, as he lifted her as though she weighed nothing, which was certainly not true.
“I—” she said, disorientated and giddy. She put her hands to her temples and closed her eyes, too weak to protest as Louis carried her and laid her carefully down upon a settee.
“Merde! What the devil have you been up to, you little fool?” he demanded, his voice hard and angrier than she had ever heard it.
“Nothing!” she protested, not understanding what she’d done to deserve such a scold.
“Rien!” he retorted, shaking his head. “That is a lie. You barely ate a mouthful at dinner, and don’t tell me otherwise, for I was watching. You’ve lost weight, far too much, and you’re so pale. Mon Dieu, Evie, what were you thinking?”
Evie’s eyes prickled with embarrassment and humiliation at his words. “W-Why shouldn’t I try to lose weight? Everyone else does it and Madame Blanchet said—”
“Madame Blanchet? She told you to starve yourself? Well the wretched woman can go to the devil, and so I shall tell her,” he raged, his eyes sparking blue fire.
“Oh, no! No, Louis, you must not,” she said, reaching out to clasp his arm. “Think of the scandal. It’s not at all appropriate.”
His expression was rather daunting as he turned on her, for she had never seen him angry with her. “And since when do you give a damn about propriety? You are here alone with a man who could ruin you, and do you care?”
Evie put her chin up. “You would never hurt me.”
“So much you know,” he said savagely, tugging his arm free and walking away from her. He stood staring down at the fire, his shoulders rigid.
“Louis?” she said, uncertain now, never having encountered her friend in this kind of mood before. There was a long silence, followed by a muttered curse. Louis ran a hand through his hair and then turned back to her.
“I am sorry, Evie,” he said, his voice low. “I beg you will forgive me. I ought never have spoken to you so harshly.”
“It was nothing, please, let us forget it…” she began, but Louis crossed the floor and knelt beside her, taking her hand.
“Non! It is not nothing, and neither is that dreadful woman making you feel anything less than beautiful nothing. She has no right to make you unhappy, and neither do I. My only defence is that it makes me furious to see you make yourself ill, and for what? To look like another dull little debutante, just like all the others, when the world already has its fill of those.”
Evie felt her eyes burn again and looked away, embarrassed. She had long been accustomed to being the plain, plump one among a bevy of beautiful women, but to have to discuss it with Louis… How mortifying. Yet, he was her dearest friend, and who else would she speak to?
“I was j-just tired of the constant comments. ‘Oh, Evie, you’d be so much prettier if only you’d lose some weight.’ ‘Oh, Evie, I found the most wonderful diet—I’ve lost six pounds, you must try it!’ ‘Oh, Evie, do you think you ought to have another piece of cake? It’s dreadfully fattening.’”
She blinked hard as her vision blurred, startled to hear a volley of furious French as Louis muttered beneath his breath.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said, his voice terse.
She waited as he took a deep breath and let it out again. Despite her best efforts, she felt a tear slide down her cheek. Louis saw it and his jaw set again, but he reached out and wiped it away, his touch gentle.
“Evie, do you trust me?”
“Of course, I do. You know I do.”
He snorted and shook his head. “Oui, far more than you should, ma petite, but if you trust me, you will heed my words and believe them. Do you promise?”
Evie frowned. “Well, I shall try, but I don’t know what they are yet.”
Louis shook his head. “That is not how this works. You will listen, and you will believe me, because I am telling you the truth. You are every bit as beautiful as any woman you wish to compare yourself with.”
Evie let out a huff of laughter. Well, if he was going to be silly about it….
“I am serious,” he said, and her breath caught at the anger in his eyes. “You. Are. Beautiful. Inside and out, and anyone who cannot see that does not deserve a moment of your time, and certainly not your tears.”
It was hard not to believe his words whilst those blue eyes stared at her with such sincerity, but Evie could not help but feel sceptical. She was a practical girl, after all, and aware of her own attributes. That’s not to say she had none. She knew she was fun to be with and could hold an intelligent conversation, and she had pretty eyes and hair, and she’d be an excellent wife and companion to anyone who wished to marry her. But to suggest she could compare to the great beauties of the ton was simply ridiculous. She knew Louis meant she was a beautiful person because he thought she was kind-hearted, but that was not at all the same thing. She simply wasn’t the type who made men wild with desire or prompted them to write sonnets or fight duels. Not that she wanted anyone to fight a duel on her account, for that would be horrible, but it would be nice to see some evidence of desire or jealousy. She had seen the possessive looks on the faces of Arabella’s and Florence’s husbands, the pride and the heat in their eyes as they looked upon their beloveds. It would be nice to think some man might feel like that for her one day, but she felt a little dubious, no matter Louis’ words.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” Louis said, his tone flat.
Evie gave a rueful smile. “I believe you are fond enough of me to see me with a kinder eye than most, and I am grateful for it, but please, Louis, let us speak of something else. What are we to do about this wretched dress?”
Louis sighed, shaking his head. “Very well. Can you stand without swooning?” he asked, his tone a little impatient.
Evie nodded, so he gave her his hand and helped her up. Louis stood back and muttered something that did not sound complimentary about the dress as he walked around her, studying the gown from all angles.
“I hate pink,” Evie said, wishing she didn’t look such a wretched sight.
He shook his head, studying her. “Non, I disagree with that, at least. The colour is good. You have a complexion most women would kill for, all that creamy white skin and here….” He moved closer to touch a finger to her cheek. “The faintest flush of rose,” he murmured.
Evie flushed a deal harder at his words. The way the French rolled the r on rose was rather delicious after all. Louis smirked. “Not so faint.”
“Well, perhaps the colour isn’t to blame, but it’s still dreadful,” Evie grumbled, folding her arms about her middle and feeling increasingly self-conscious.
Louis took her wrists, uncrossing her arms and staring at her bust and midriff with such concentration she wanted to die of embarrassment.
“Louis,” she said, uncomfortable.
“The cut is all wrong,” he said, interrupting her. “This neckline is far too high and unflattering. It does not make the most of your assets.”
“My… what?”
“Your assets,” Louis repeated impatiently.
“Do I have, er… assets?” she asked doubtfully.
Louis tsked, giving her an incredulous glance. “Your bust is magnificent, Evie, and it’s being hidden beneath that high neck when it ought to be on display. I cannot understand what the woman was thinking. Perhaps she was jealous.”
Evie snorted in amusement, too entertained to be scandalised by the comment. “I hardly think—”
“What kind of corset are you wearing?”
“Wh—” Evie began, and then gave up, staring at him in outrage. “You cannot ask me that!” she whispered, stunned.
Louis rolled his eyes. “You wanted my advice, my help, oui? Well, whatever is under that dress is not doing what it ought. Tiens, never mind. You must send me your measurements and I shall deal with that too.”
“But—”
“Hush.” Louis silenced her as he stood back, contemplating.
Obediently, Evie hushed, too confounded to say another word. Louis studied her critically.
“The cut of this neckline needs to be low, and these dreadful frills must go. They are all wrong for you. You need a much simpler style, with some small pleats for emphasis, I think… Oui, that run from the shoulders to here.”
Evie blinked, a little stunned, as he traced a line in mid-air, from her shoulder to low on her décolletage.
“There?” she squealed in alarm. “I’ll fall out of it!”
“No, you will not,” he assured her.
“B-But everyone will stare at me,” she protested, flushing hot as she considered the idea.
Louis shrugged. “Oui, naturellement.”
“I’m really not sure—”
“You said you trusted me,” he replied, watching her with unnerving intensity.
“I do. Of course, I do, but…” Evie sighed at the implacable look in his eyes. “Oh. Very well.”
“You will have the gown sent to my room and I will see to the alterations.”
“Yes, Louis.”
He nodded, apparently satisfied. The sound of the clock chiming one, echoed in the distance. Evie sighed in disappointment. “I suppose I had better go to bed.”
“Non, not yet,” Louis said, taking her firmly by the hand and leading her to the door.
“Where are we going?” she asked, brightening to think the evening was not yet over, and curious to know what he had in mind.
Louis looked over his shoulder at her, a determined glint in his eyes. “To get you something to eat.”
8th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.
Georgie came down late to breakfast the next morning after a luxurious lie in. Nearly everyone but Evie had already been and gone ages ago, but she was content enough, sipping a cup of delicious hot chocolate. She gave a little sigh of pleasure and licked her lips, setting the cup down and turning to Evie, who was smothering a yawn.
“Did you not sleep well?” George asked her in concern.
Evie flushed and returned a nervous smile. “Umm, no, not very well. All the excitement I expect.”
“I slept like the dead. Meg had to shake me to wake me up, or I’d still be snoring,” Georgie said, grinning, though her smile faded as she noticed the Duke of Rochford sit down at the opposite end of the table. He was scowling at her. She resisted the temptation to stick her tongue out at him and returned her attention to Evie.
“Aunt Prue said I might go to the kitchens and make shortbread. Do you want to come?”
Evie bit her lip. “Actually, I have a bit of a headache. I might go for a walk and get some fresh air. Clear the cobwebs away.”
Georgie nodded. “As you wish. I hope you feel better.”
Evie smiled and got up, leaving the table. Georgie reached for a fresh bread roll and tore it in half. She had buttered one side and begun on the other before she realised Rochford was still there.
“You cook?” he asked, surprising her.
She had assumed he would ignore her and had been quite happy with that. Conversing with him did not seem wise, but she could hardly refuse to answer a direct question.
“I do.”
He frowned at her, apparently unhappy with this answer. “Why? You are the daughter of an earl. If you want something, you need only snap your pretty fingers.”
“And do aristocratic men need to go out and shoot birds and deer?” she countered.
He waved this away with disregard. “It is not considered a respectable hobby for a lady, I think. It is too menial.”
Georgie stared back at him. “I don’t care. I enjoy it.”
His thick, dark brows drew together.
She gave a tut of irritation. “If the ton suddenly disapproved of men hunting, would you stop?”
“I don’t hunt anyway, so I should not care.”
She stared at him in surprise.
“You don’t hunt?” The surprise in her voice was audible.
He shot her a contemptuous look. “No doubt you imagine me murdering the wildlife with my bare hands, but no, my lady. I do not hunt.”
The bitterness of his tone took her aback, and Georgie looked at him with interest. “You certainly look capable of doing that,” she admitted. “But I do not understand why you should think I imagine you doing so.”
“Do you not?” he said, and she wondered if he was really sneering at her, or if it was the scar at his lip that just gave that impression. She ignored his comment and concentrated on piling jam onto one half of the roll.
“I like to cook. It gives me pleasure, both to make things and to see people enjoy the results. Obviously, I do not need to do it, but I find it… soothing.”
“Soothing?” he repeated. “What in God’s name do you need soothing for? You’re young and rich and beautiful. A charmed life, I would think.”
Georgie glanced at him, wondering why he seemed so dreadfully cross with her when he did not know her at all. Though she noted he thought her beautiful and was alarmed by the little jolt of pleasure the words gave her. He was a peculiar fellow, this duke.
“Indeed, a charmed life. I am very fortunate, but so are you, I think.”
His lip curled. This time it was deliberate, she was certain.
“Indeed,” he echoed, a private note to his voice she could not decipher.
A footman appeared at her elbow to refill her cup of chocolate and she smiled, recognising the handsome young man. “Good morning. Roberts, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lady,” he said, beaming at her, clearly pleased to be remembered.
“How are you settling in? You had not long been here when I last visited. Are you happy?”
Roberts flushed with pleasure at her inquiry. “Oh, yes, my lady. The duke and duchess are most kind and everyone has been very welcoming. I’ve been fortunate.”
“And how is your mother? She was unwell, I think? I do hope she has recovered.”
Roberts gaped at her in astonishment, but nodded. “Yes, my lady, she is fit as a flea—I mean, she’s well, thank you. She’ll be that made up to know you asked after her.”
“Well, then I am glad on both counts,” Georgie said, before thanking him for the chocolate.
Roberts moved away down the table and Georgie once again felt the weight of the duke’s scrutiny. Heavens. Now what? She looked at him and raised her eyebrows.
“You ought not be so familiar with the staff,” he said, his voice cold. “It causes problems.”
“Problems for whom?” she demanded, matching his icy tone. “Not me.”
“No. For them. For if they do not know where the line is, they overstep and jeopardise their situation.”
“Perhaps in your employ, not in my mother’s, nor my Aunt Prue’s,” she retorted.
He made an impatient sound. “They are not your friends. They work for you.”
“That does not mean we must treat them as if they do not exist,” Georgie snapped, her temper rising.
Her mother had instilled that lesson into her. Georgie knew, as her mother had discovered in her time, that it was not done to thank servants, or even acknowledge the fact that they existed. As the daughter of a vastly wealthy self-made man, the aristocracy had not accepted her mother, viewing her as an imposter in their select ranks. The ton had reviled her for her lack of breeding and laughed at her befriending the staff, implying that like was drawn to like. Despite this, she had refused to follow their lead and blend in by acting as they did. She had always known the names of her staff and whether they were happy or well, and as much about their families and situations as they wished to share. She also thanked her staff for a job well done. Every one of Georgie’s father’s great estates ran like clockwork, and the staff were happy and well-treated. That was down to her mother, so this pig-headed, mean-spirited duke was not about to change her mind or her ways.
“They will not respect you if you speak so freely with them. They’ll take advantage. Did you not see the way that boy looked at you?”
Georgie blinked at him. “What way?” The duke made a disgusted sound and threw his napkin down on the table as he stood.
“Ignorant child,” he muttered under his breath.
Georgie flushed. “I am not the least ignorant, and you are rude and unkind, and I don’t care if you are a duke, you are not a gentleman.”
Rochford snorted at that, staring at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. “No. I’m not.”
He stalked out of the breakfast parlour without another word, leaving Georgie to seethe in his absence.
Rochford walked back towards Beverwyck, the frost hardened grass crunching beneath his boots. He was still simmering after his confrontation with Lady Georgina, though why she’d annoyed him so he could not fathom. She was just another brainless debutante, except this one had an urge to be a do-gooder. Her kindness would get her or a member of staff into trouble one day, but she’d not heed him, so he might have saved his breath.
A delicious scent drifted upon the cold air as he drew closer to the house. Rochford stopped, sniffing appreciatively. He’d been walking for some time, trying to shake off a growing sense of restlessness, and had found himself on the side of the house where the kitchens and utility buildings lay out of sight of the grander parts of the property. Not that they were shabby. Everything about Beverwyck was immaculate and revealed a sharp eye for beauty and detail. The sound of a door opening had him turning, and he muttered a curse as he saw Lady Georgina step outside. Typical. Just what he needed. He was considering ducking behind a well-placed oak tree in order to escape her when she looked up. She stiffened at the sight of him, a reaction which only irritated him further, though heaven alone knew why. It wasn’t as if he wanted the blasted woman to like him. No one liked him. They respected him, feared him, and damn well did what he said, but they didn’t like him. He didn’t have friends who liked him. Well, apart from Blackwood, but he had a warped sense of humour and was somewhat eccentric, so he could be excused for his judgement, which was clearly unsound.
The kitchen was set on the lower floors and, as he could not now escape, Rochford waited as she climbed the stairs back up to ground level. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the kitchen and her thick, curling hair was escaping its pins on all sides. Rochford had a sudden and unwelcome vision of how she might look beneath him as she cried out in passion, her lovely skin pink for an entirely different reason. He stamped on the image at once, but it was too late and his body reacted, his skin feeling two sizes too small as desire flared with an accompanying rush of heat.
“The famous shortbread, I surmise,” he said, jerking his head at the tin box she carried.
“Yes,” she replied, looking wary, as well she might.
The scent of butter and sugar clung to her, and Rochford’s mouth watered. Damn the shortbread, she looked good enough to eat.
She hesitated for a moment before tugging the lid off and offering the tin to him. “Try one.”
“I don’t like sweets,” Rochford growled, aware he sounded ungrateful and churlish but unable to stop himself.
“Try anyway. You’ll like these,” she predicted, annoying him further.
He’d just told her he didn’t have a sweet tooth, hadn’t he? She waved the tin under his nose, clearly not about to take no for an answer. Rochford gave a long-suffering sigh and looked at the biscuits, which had been made in the shape of a thistle. He picked out a golden piece, studded all over with sugar, and put the whole thing in his mouth, chewing reluctantly. Butter and sweetness and a crumbly, rich texture filled his mouth, and it was all he could do not to moan with pleasure. He was damned if he’d let her know that, though. He scowled and shrugged.
“It’s a biscuit.”
She gave a derisive snort and glared at him in outrage. “It’s not just a biscuit. It’s shortbread!”
Rochford regarded her with amusement. He’d never guessed someone could get so furious over a biscuit.
“Shortbread is a superior biscuit. It is the king of biscuits and you enjoyed it, you’re just being stubborn.”
Rochford felt his eyebrows go up. “The king of biscuits?” he repeated sceptically.
She flushed harder but put up her chin. “Aye.”
Ah, and there was the Scottish accent she hid, emerging because she was flustered.
“Aye,” he repeated, smiling. It was a mistake. He’d not meant to mock her, but she clearly took it as such.
“Aye,” she repeated, her voice louder and harder now as she crammed the lid back on the tin. “So awa’ n bile yer heid!”
Rochford’s mouth fell open, though he was uncertain whether he was more stunned by the thick Scottish accent or the fact she’d just told him to go boil his head. He had no opportunity to react or retaliate, though, as she turned and stalked away, and he could do nothing but watch the mesmerising sway of her glorious backside as she went.
