The Mistletoe Dare by Emma V Leech

Chapter 6

Dearest Evie,

I hope you are well. It seems an age since we saw you last. Do come and visit soon. Even Hart is cheerful when you are around. So, you must be welcome.

Have you lots of celebrations and parties to attend this Christmas? Poor Mama must juggle between accepting the right amount to be polite and not make Papa and Hart utterly miserable. They bear it with good grace and rarely complain, but they really don’t have the patience for polite society. Heaven help them when I come out, for I shall want to go to every ball I can. Not to catch a husband, for I’m in no hurry for that, but I do love to dance. They’ll hate every minute, the poor dears.

―Excerpt of a letter from Kathleen de Beauvoir (daughter of Mr and Mrs Inigo and Minerva de Beauvoir) to Miss Evie Knight (daughter of Mr Gabriel and Lady Helena Knight).

 

Evening of the 8th of December 1840, Mrs Barclay’s Rout Party, Grosvenor Square, London.

“How have you been?” Nic asked his brother. “I feel you’ve been avoiding me these past weeks.”

Louis César’s beautiful face was impassive, revealing nothing. The damned mask he wore was firmly in place tonight. Nic wondered when the last time was he’d seen it slip. Once upon a time, he and Louis had been inseparable, hiding nothing from each other. In fact, Louis had hated not having him around. He never had borne being alone well, but recently Nic barely saw him.

“Very well, as you see,” Louis replied, though he didn’t turn to look at Nic, just watched the room.

“I’m glad you decided to come.”

Louis did turn then, quirking one elegant eyebrow just a little. “It was a decision, was it?” he asked mildly.

Nic shrugged. “We wanted you here. The duchess wanted you here, Aggie and your Miss Evie wanted you here.”

“She’s not my Miss Evie,” Louis snapped, glaring at him.

Nic raised his hands in a surrendering movement. “D’accord, if you say so.”

“Who says otherwise?” he demanded.

Nic’s eyebrows went up, a little surprised by his brother’s defensiveness. “No one, you just always seem thick as thieves, that’s all. You still write to her, don’t you?”

Louis shrugged, which Nic took to be a yes. He had long been puzzled by Louis’ close relationship with Evie Knight. She seemed an unlikely confidante for Louis, because Louis always had access to the most beautiful women for company. No, that was not quite correct. He could understand Louis being her friend. His brother was inherently kind and always had a soft spot for a waif or stray… hence Aggie. Not that Evie was a waif or stray, but she did not fit the mould of the usual debutante either, and Louis would always recognise another outsider. It was what they both were. Oh, Louis might look as though he belonged here among the ton for he was handsome and titled and rich, but underneath was a different matter. Underneath, he was still a boy dressed in rags, who got tossed scraps to eat and slept on the kitchen floor. Louis might not realise Nic knew that was still true, but it was. Even so, he had not expected Louis to make Evie of all people his closest friend, yet Nic was certain he had, which was both puzzling, and a worry.

It could ruin Evie and, if that happened, it would destroy Louis.

Speak of the devil. Here was the young lady herself.

“Monsieur Le Comte,” she said, beaming at Louis. “Will you come and play cards, please?”

Nic watched with interest as the stern lines of Louis’ face softened in her presence and the mask fell, amusement glinting in his eyes.

“Surely, I taught you a lesson the last time we played, Miss Knight? I am not good-natured enough to let you win.”

“I should hope not!” she said indignantly, and with such vehemence that Louis smiled. “I shall beat you fair and square or not at all.”

“Well, if you must learn the hard way.” Louis held out his arm, told Nic he would see him later, and escorted Miss Knight to the card room.

Nic watched them go, lost in thought.

“Why, Lady Georgina, I believe you have made a conquest.”

Georgina looked at Jules in consternation. “What are you talking about? What conquest?”

Jules gestured to the other side of the crowded room where people were milling about, drinking and chatting. There would be dancing later, but for now there was a concert going on in the ballroom, some famous opera singer by all accounts. Georgina did not feel like sitting still, though, and she had avoided the card room for the same reason. She felt fractious and out of sorts, though she wasn’t sure why, and Jules making cryptic comments was not helping her temper. Georgie craned her neck, able to see over the heads of much of the crowd, unlike most of the female guests, not that the new arrival was hard to miss.

Her mouth fell open, and she turned to stare at Jules.

“You cannot be serious?”

“Why not? He never attends parties or balls, or any of the ton events. Yet you want him to come and voila, here he is.” Jules put his hands out as if to say, you explain it.

“Who says I wanted him to come?” Georgie demanded, flushing scarlet.

Jules smirked at her. “He told me you said he should come.”

“Only so he wouldn’t be all by himself, because the company might be good for him. I didn’t ask him to come. Not for me. Not because I want him here. I didn’t ask him because I wanted to see him. That would be ridiculous. You know I can’t stand him!” Georgie subsided, aware she may have run on rather longer than was necessary.

Jules merely quirked an eyebrow at her. Georgie simmered and promised herself the pleasure of stamping on his foot if the words methinks the lady doth protest too much dared pass his smug lips.

Despite herself, Georgie could not help but glance back to where the duke was making his way across the room. People parted in front of him, conversations falling silent, gasps and whispers moving around the room like a breeze rustling long grass. Georgie gritted her teeth. The duke might be an obnoxious arse, but they had no right to treat him so. Yes, he was certainly striking, but… but he was also rather splendid. There was not another man in the room who could match him for height and breadth, and Georgie couldn’t help but find him magnificent. She also had a something of an idea of how he felt. She’d seen the way some of the young men looked at her, smirking and laughing. They made lewd jokes about her size and made her feel ridiculous, too big, too ungainly in a world where fragility and fainting seemed prized in a woman. It made her angry too. It made her hate those people because they hurt her and made her feel wrong and unfeminine.

“Oh, give him a chance, Georgie,” Jules whispered in her ear. “Like Mama said. He just doesn’t know how to play nicely yet. No one ever taught him.”

“Well, why do I have to be the one to do it?” she asked, folding her arms. “I’m likely to get scratched to pieces for my trouble.”

“Oh, no. Only a little bruised,” Jules said, chuckling. “Come on, Georgie, you’re made of stern stuff. You’d need to be to survive those hulking brutes you call brothers.”

Georgie smirked. “You’re just still smarting that Muir knocked you out cold.”

“I wasn’t ready!” Jules retorted, nettled.

“Dear me, that was, what, ten years ago, and it still rankles, doesn’t it, Julie?” she said, aware she was waving a red rag at him. It’s what had begun the fight in the first place.

“Don’t call me that,” Jules warned, narrowing his eyes at her.

“Then stop trying your hand at matchmaking. It won’t work,” she retorted, and stalked off.

Georgie took a turn about the room, and then saw the duke still hadn’t found Jules and was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, glowering at anyone who got near. Oh, drat it all. She’d better speak to him, but if he was rude to her, she was leaving him to flounder on his own.

Deciding she wasn’t above a little mischief, Georgie crept up behind him and tapped him on his left shoulder, before darting right. He looked around, frowning as he found an empty space.

“Good evening, your grace.”

He jumped and turned back, scowling at her.

“Oh, you’re here,” he said, not sounding pleased to discover it.

“Well, you knew I would be,” she said, keeping her smile in place.

He made a harrumphing sound.

“You, on the other hand, were very certain you would not attend.”

“I didn’t want to,” he grumbled.

“And yet, here you are,” she replied sweetly.

Another harrumphing sound.

“You don’t like me,” Georgie observed with amusement.

“No more than you like me,” he countered.

Georgie batted her eyelashes at him. “Does anyone like you?”

He frowned, looking genuinely puzzled. “Why would I want them to? I’m a duke.”

“You’re a man.”

“No, I’m not. I’m a title and an estate, I am history and the future, and thousands depend on me.”

She stared at him in outrage. “How pompous you sound.”

“I’m a duke,” he repeated slowly, as if she were a half-wit.

“Pfft. You’re still just a man, and an ill-tempered, rude one at that.”

He bristled, his eyes glittering. She had the sudden notion he was enjoying himself. Stranger still, so was she.

“And you are a graceless, mannerless, baggage.”

“Probably,” Georgie replied cheerfully. “But at least I’m happy about it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“That you’re not. You’re unhappy and cross but you don’t know what to do about it, and so you take it out on the rest of us because you envy us.”

“Envy… you?”She might as well have accused him of being an imposter, he was so outraged.

Georgie grinned at him and shrugged. “I tell you what. As an act of charity, for it is Christmas after all, I shall teach you to play a game.”

He folded his massive arms, rendering her speechless for several seconds. “I don’t want to play a game.”

Georgie forced herself back to the conversation. “That’s because you don’t know how. Now, I shall begin. I say, ‘I went to the shops and bought a book,’ then you must repeat the sentence but with another object. I will tell you if the object is correct or not, but they must have something in common.”

“What in common?”

“Ah, that is what you have to figure out, that’s the game part of it.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Of course it is. That’s the point of a game. It’s fun.”

“I want to go home.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I give up.” Georgie said in exasperation and turned to walk away from him, startled to find a large hand dart out and snare her wrist. Goodness, but he was fast. Sensation prickled up her arm, making her cheeks burn, and he dropped his hold on her like she’d burned him.

“Don’t go,” he said, his voice all low and gravelly, sending shivers down her spine.

“Why?” she demanded, wishing that hadn’t sounded quite so breathless, but he had startled her, that was all.

He gave an irritated huff before admitting, “I don’t know where Jules is, and I don’t know anyone else here I can bear talking to.”

“You mean you can bear talking to me? Why, your grace, I may swoon.” Georgie placed a hand over her heart and fluttered her eyelashes at him.

Rochford snorted. “Yes, yes, very amusing, I’m sure. You should be on the stage. Think of it as another act of charity, why don’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose I can do that,” Georgie said gravely. “Like reading to a doddering old man whilst he dribbles into his soup.”

“Charming.”

“No, you’re not the least bit charming. Frankly, I’d rather take the toothless soup drinker, but that’s life. No one said it was fair.”

He stared down at her and she thought she saw amusement in his eyes. They were a deep slate grey she saw now but there was a halo of gold around the pupil, a warm colour, though she had never seen warmth in his expression. She thought she saw a hint of it now, of the man he might have been if life had been kinder, and she had the sudden urge to see more, to reach past the impenetrable façade.

“Life’s a vindictive bitch, Lady Georgina. Sooner you recognise that fact the easier it is to bear.”

He raised his eyebrows at her, his arm still awaiting her hand.

Georgina slid her hand over his sleeve, too aware of the power of the man beneath the material. Even though she wore gloves, and there was his coat and shirt between them, she was viscerally aware of his skin, of heavy muscle and bone shifting under her fingertips. Her heart gave an erratic thud and a strange, liquid warmth pooled deep in her core.

“You’re blushing,” he said, and drat the man for noticing. “If being seen with me is too dreadful a fate, I’m happy to leave. I never wanted to come in the first place.”

Georgie’s gaze snapped to his. The words had not held a trace of condemnation, only offered her a way out.

“I don’t want you to leave,” she said crossly.

He frowned down at her. Did the man have another expression? “Why are you blushing, then?”

Georgie flushed harder. “Stop asking me that, you’re making it worse.”

“How am I making it worse? I don’t know why you’re blushing.”

“Oh, shut up, will you!” she pleaded, aware that everyone was staring at them.

He obliged her by shutting up, which was a blessing, and they did a circuit of the room in silence as Georgie endured the stares and the whispers. It was horrible. The poor man. How did he stand it? Well, he didn’t, did he? Which was why he never socialised and had all the patience of an angry bear.

Georgie glimpsed swirling skirts and movement through the open doors of the ballroom and realised the dancing had begun.

“Do you dance?” she asked him, before she could think better of it.

He stared at her liked she’d asked if he spoke Swahili.

“I never dance,” he said coldly.

“Yes, I know that, but do you know how to?” she replied, striving for patience.

Another contemptuous glare. “I’m a duke.”

“Excellent,” she said, assuming that meant yes, and began steering him towards the ballroom. Naturally, he planted his feet, which meant tugging at his arm would have about as much effect as trying to move a twenty-foot block of marble. “Oh, do come along,” she pleaded.

“I’m not dancing. I never dance.”

Georgie sighed and released his arm. She turned and looked up at him, keeping her voice soothing. “Well, why don’t you try something different? You never come to parties either, do you, and look how well that’s turned out.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her, imperious devil.

She tsked at him, impatient now. “Stop waggling your eyebrows and trying to look all ducal. It won’t work. I’m immune.”

“I am not trying. I am ducal. And what in the name of God makes you think this has turned out well? Everyone is whispering about us—about you. Do you want to be at the centre of their tittle-tattle?”

“No,” she said frankly. “But I do want to dance and I’m not about to let their wagging tongues stop me.”

He stood watching her, his expression unreadable. Georgie waited.

After what seemed an age, he made his usual harrumphing sound and took her hand, placing it back on his sleeve and strode towards the ballroom, muttering as he went. Naturally, the whispering behind fans increased tenfold as Rochford appeared in the ballroom. It was as if he were some dangerous beast who’d strayed into their territory.

Georgie felt a sudden swell of protectiveness rise inside her, which clearly proved she was utterly deranged. Of all the men who needed protecting here, the duke was the least likely candidate, surely? Yet that was only on the surface. Yes, he was big and fearsome if you took him at face value, and admittedly, getting on the wrong side of his tongue was akin to being lashed with glass paper. Still, she couldn’t help herself. Something in her nature told him he needed looking after even if he didn’t want it.

“Are you quite sure about this?” he asked, his voice even, giving nothing away.

“I am,” Georgie said, though her heart was careening about behind her ribs. “Quite sure.”

“It’s your funeral,” he muttered, and reached for her.

Oh. Oh, this was a bad idea. The worst. Oh, Georgie, you nitwit.

But there was no backing out now.

He danced superbly. Perhaps not with the finesse of some, but for a man of his size to move as he did, and to hold her so carefully… Georgie was melting. Though she enjoyed dancing, Georgie did not enjoy being paired with a man over whose head she could see, which was far too many of them. Not that she minded the men being short—it was no more their fault than that she was tall—only that it made her feel such an elephant in a room full of fairies. It wasn’t a problem with Rochford. His powerful physique made her feel almost delicate by comparison. He certainly held her as though she was, as though he might break her if he wasn’t careful. And then she made the mistake of looking up into his eyes. She didn’t see the scar, nor anything that seemed the least bit out of place. It was simply Rochford, and his dark grey eyes were on her, for once unguarded. He looked like a man stripped bare, like someone seeing the ocean for the first time.

Georgie wanted to reach up and stroke his face, to show him she wasn’t like the others, that she wasn’t afraid of him. Thankfully, some fraying shred of sanity remained, and she kept her hand glued to his shoulder, but she could not tear her eyes from his.

The dance ended, and Georgie was uncertain if it was too soon or if that had been an eternity. Her head was spinning, and her heart was pounding and….

“Well. You’ve had your dance. I’m off. Goodnight.”

Rochford stalked away, leaving her in the middle of the ballroom by herself.