The Mistletoe Dare
The Daring Daughters Book 8
By Emma V. Leech
Published by Emma V. Leech.
Copyright (c) Emma V. Leech 2021
Editing Services Magpie Literary Services
Cover Art: Victoria Cooper
ASIN No: B09HQ1SGZG
ISBN No:978-2-492133-36-7
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. The ebook version and print version are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The ebook version may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share the ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products are inferred.
Other Works by Emma V. Leech
Daring Daughters
Daring Daughters Series
Girls Who Dare
Girls Who Dare Series
Rogues & Gentlemen
Rogues & Gentlemen Series
The Regency Romance Mysteries
The Regency Romance Mysteries Series
The French Vampire Legend
The French Vampire Legend Series
The French Fae Legend
The French Fae Legend Series
Stand Alone
The Book Lover (a paranormal novella)
The Girl is Not for Christmas (Regency Romance)
Audio Books
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Acknowledgements
Thanks, of course, to my wonderful editor Kezia Cole with Magpie Literary Services.
To Victoria Cooper for all your hard work, amazing artwork and above all your unending patience!!! Thank you so much. You are amazing!
To my BFF, PA, personal cheerleader and bringer of chocolate, Varsi Appel, for moral support, confidence boosting and for reading my work more times than I have. I love you loads!
A huge thank you to all of Emma’s Book Club members! You guys are the best!
I’m always so happy to hear from you so do email or message me :)
[email protected]
To my husband Pat and my family … For always being proud of me.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Family Trees
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Just a Little Daring
To Dare a Duke
The Rogue
A Dog in a Doublet
The Key to Erebus
The Dark Prince
Want more Emma?
Dedication
For Roy Kelly
My dear friend.
King Sanglier
I will miss you.
Family Trees
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 a
s 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 the handsomest 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.
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