The Mistletoe Dare by Emma V Leech

Chapter 5

Dearest Cat,

I hope this letter finds you well. Are you having a splendid time this Christmas? We are. Eliza and Lottie are both back at Beverwyck with their husbands, and we have Georgie and Evie staying, too, as well as Aggie. She sends her love, by the way. I hope we get to see you soon.

Everyone is off to a rout party this evening, but at least Victoria and Aggie and I may stay up late and play games instead of going to bed like the babies.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Lord Frederick Adolphus (younger son of Their Graces, Robert and Prunella Adolphus, Duke and Duchess of Bedwin) to The Lady Catherine Barrington (daughter of Lucian and Matilda Barrington, The Most Hon’ble Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu).

 

8th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

Georgie stalked back to the parlour, as cross as a baited badger. Oh, the nerve of the man. And to think she’d been feeling sorry for him, the aggravating lout. Well, good. At least now she could put aside any unruly and inappropriate feelings for him. Currently, the only thing she wanted to do to him was hit him with a heavy blunt object, not that it would dent his thick skull. Still, it was all for the good, for there had been a disconcerting moment when she had stood looking up at him, her fingers tracing the line of that ugly scar. She had been certain they’d had a connection, that for a moment she had glimpsed beneath the angry façade and what she’d seen had made her heart ache, had made her want to kiss him. Thank God she hadn’t acted on it. The horrid creature would have believed it proof positive she was trying to seduce him for his title! As if she’d want to spend the rest of her days tied to a fiend like that.

Everyone looked up, staring at her as she flounced back into the room. It took her a moment to realise she had done nothing to disguise her fury. Her cheeks were flushed with irritation and she no doubt looked ready to do murder—after having flown from the room in pursuit of the Duke of Rochford.

Oh.

Deciding it was best to go on the offensive, she turned on Jules. “What were you thinking, inviting that beastly man to come for Christmas?” she demanded.

Jules’ eyebrows flew up. “I didn’t want him to be on his own,” he said, candid as ever.

Georgie huffed and folded her arms. “Perhaps there’s a good reason he’s alone,” she groused, aware she hardly sounded as if she was full of goodwill to all men. Though she was, she truly was, just… all men except the Duke of Rochford.

“Undoubtedly,” Jules agreed, watching her with interest but offering nothing more concrete.

“He’s too bloody proud to even join in a game of charades,” she said, brushing irritably at a curl of hair that had escaped its pins. “He can see Uncle Robert playing, but no… he won’t lower himself.”

“Perhaps he’s shy,” Aunt Prue suggested mildly.

A tea tray had arrived in Georgie’s absence and the duchess was pouring out steaming cups.

Georgie stared at her. “Shy?”

For a moment she considered the duke, all six foot seven of him. He was hardly slow in telling her how she ought to behave. He wasn’t shy about that, now, was he? Nor was he shy in calling her friends a pack of fools, or accusing her of wanting to marry him for his title.

“He’s not shy,” she muttered crossly.

Aunt Prue handed her a cup, made just how Georgie liked it. “Then, perhaps he doesn’t know how to play games.”

Georgie gave a reluctant shrug. “He doesn’t. He said he never played games as a child.”

“The poor man. How dreadfully sad,” her aunt said, watching Georgie intently. “I wonder what kind of life he’s had, to be so alone, and not know how to play games?”

“A bloody awful one, from the bits I’ve pieced together over the years,” Jules said, his expression thoughtful. “That’s why I invited him. He’s got this huge draughty castle down in the wilds of Cumbria, but he never speaks of family, and I know he hasn’t any friends. Well, except me.”

“Why are you friends, Jules?” Georgie asked, wondering how two such unlikely men could get along.

Jules shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah, well. He’s a good fellow underneath all that growling and bluster. You just have to persevere. He’s not an easy man, I’ll grant you. He’s irascible and prickly, and bloody-minded and—good Lord, why am I friends with him?”

His mother laughed and reached over to ruffle his hair as if he was a small boy. “Because you have a kind heart,” she said affectionately.

Jules grumbled and made a show of smoothing down his hair, but Georgie suspected he didn’t really mind. She took her tea back to her chair and sat down, frowning into the golden liquid. With a sigh of frustration, she took a sip, and then another. By the time she’d finished, she didn’t feel quite so out of sorts, just a bit… unsettled. Feeling eyes upon her, Georgie looked up to see her aunt was still watching her. Prue smiled.

“Perhaps the duke needs another chance,” she suggested.

Georgie snorted at that. “I’m certain he’s already had at least three, and I only met him yesterday.”

Prue chuckled and set down her teacup. “Well, I think Rochford might need a lot of chances, perhaps to make up for all the ones he’s missed until now.”

Georgie groaned inwardly. Well, now she felt guilty, and the wretched man had been utterly vile. Surely she could be furious with him? Yes, she decided. She could certainly be furious with him, but… but perhaps Prue was right. Perhaps he deserved a few more chances. Just in case.

“Nobody wants me there, for the love of God. Why must you keep harping on about this damned party?” Rochford groaned.

His patience was wearing thin, but Blackwood seemed determined to break it entirely.

“In the first place, you ought to show your face in society now and then, because it might stop people from believing you are some mad beast who eats small children for breakfast.”

Rochford snorted. “Well, that’s a steaming pile of horse shite. What the devil do I care what they think? What’s the second place? Get it over with, so we can abandon this farce, will you?”

Blackwood gave a long-suffering sigh, but carried on. “In the second place, I think perhaps there is someone who wants you there.”

“If you say you, I’m going to toss your sorry carcass out the nearest window,” Rochford warned, getting up and stalking to the whisky decanter.

They’d retired to the comfortable suite of rooms the duke and duchess had assigned him for his stay, and Blackwood had sprawled in a chair by the fire, looking every inch the pampered, indolent aristocrat.

“God, you’re violent,” Blackwood complained, tutting at him. “And of course I want you there, but—”

He made a staying motion as Rochford turned back to him with a challenging glint in his eye.

“—but that’s not what I meant. I think Lady Georgina wants you there, too.”

Rochford was so startled he nearly dropped the decanter and wasted a good deal of very fine whisky. “Have you lost your mind? The woman hates me.”

“And why would that be?” Blackwood asked, his tone conversational.

Rochford avoided his all-too-knowing gaze and made a production of pouring the drinks. He handed one to his friend, still avoiding making eye contact, and sat down. He took a large swallow and stared down into his glass.

“Well?” Blackwood persisted. “Spit it out.”

Rochford made a harrumphing sound and rubbed the back of his neck. “She… I… I might have been somewhat… ill-tempered.”

“You?” Blackwood said, feigning astonishment. “Ill-tempered? I don’t believe it.”

“Sod off.”

“Such charming company I keep. In what way were you ill-tempered, Rochford?”

Realising he would not get a moment’s peace if he didn’t tell all, Rochford capitulated. “I suggested she was trying to… lure me.”

“Lure you?” Jules said, sitting up straighter. “What the devil did you mean by that?”

“Into marrying her, dammit. I suggested the chit was after my title,” Rochford said, feeling ridiculous now, which only irritated him all the more.

Jules stared at him, so clearly astonished that Rochford felt a prize twit. As if a woman like Lady Georgina would ever consider him, even if it was only for his money and his title. She’d have no trouble making a fine match, and without having to spend the rest of her days enduring his ugly mug.

“You think Lady Georgina was trying to flirt with you, hoping to become a duchess?”

“I never said it made any sense, did I?” Rochford retorted. “But that’s why she hates me.”

“I should think she does! Well, that certainly explains why she came back into the parlour with her feathers all on end. The questions is, though, what made you think that was what she was after?”

Rochford scowled down into his whisky, wishing it wouldn’t keep putting him in mind of Lady Georgina’s beautiful tawny eyes. “She was kind to me,” he grumbled.

“She was kind to you,” Blackwood repeated, sotto voce.

“Yes.” Rochford glared at him, wondering why the idiot didn’t understand plain English all of a sudden.

“She was kind to you, and so you accused her of trying to lure you into marriage?”

Rochford rubbed a hand over his face. “Yes! I said so, didn’t I?”

“Rochford, I’m kind to you, but I assure you—”

“One more word,” Rochford said, pointing a finger at him.

Blackwood subsided with a smirk. “Very well, but really, Rochford, what were you thinking? Georgie is a dear creature with a kind heart. Why shouldn’t she be kind to you, too? What makes you so special that she wouldn’t include you? She’s kind to everyone, even me.”

Rochford frowned. He hadn’t considered that. Perhaps the foolish girl was simply deluded. One of those poor, simple beings who thought all God’s creatures were precious, even the slithery, crawling ones. Well, that made some sense, perhaps. He’d heard of young women getting fanatically religious and wanting to be nuns, and going about doing good works at all hours of the day and night. Perhaps it was something of that sort.

“She’s perfectly sane, Rochford,” Jules said dryly, proving something that Rochford had suspected for some time. The devil knew him too well.

Rochford swallowed his drink and got up to pour another.

“So, you’ll come tonight?”

“I never said I would,” Rochford retorted.

“No, but you need the opportunity to apologise to Lady Georgina for being a—”

“An obnoxious arse,” Rochford supplied for him. “Her words, not mine.”

Blackwood snorted and headed for the door. “Well, she’s got your measure, that’s for sure. Be ready to leave at seven thirty.”

Rochford gave a groan of frustration, but didn’t argue.