It was late in the evening now, and everyone had gone to bed. Georgie among the first to leave, hurrying away in case he spoke to her alone. Rochford walked about the house as the servants gave him a wide berth, maids giving him anxious stares of alarm as he prowled about by himself. He would not sleep this night, though, and despite his dejection, he found pleasure in the way the grand house looked, even the way it smelled.
There was greenery everywhere: great boughs of holly and fir and mistletoe, kissing boughs and cleverly arranged wreaths studded with apples and pears and red berries. Christmas roses shone like stars in the glinting firelight, and the scents of cinnamon and exotic spices lingered in the air. This was what some people knew Christmas looked and smelled like. He had known that, but never experienced it first-hand. He wondered if Georgie would have made the big inhospitable castle he called home feel this way, cocooned in festive colours, the very walls of the building infused with the scent of a family at home with itself and its surroundings. You could almost touch the contentment in this place. The Bedwin family was large and powerful and yet, at the heart of it, was a household that loved and cared for each other and those around them.
Rochford moved to the fireplace, studying the beautiful arrangement of greenery, ribbons, and fir cones that adorned the mantle. One large candle burned at the centre, and he watched it flicker as his presence stirred the air, moving closer.
Movement behind him made him turn his head, but there was no one around. He stared at the flame for a moment longer, and then reached up his hand and snuffed it out.
Georgie took the stairs two at a time, reaching her room breathless and with her heart thudding wildly.
Stop it, she told herself, blinking back tears. You cannot marry a man because you feel sorry for him.
But her heart was aching.
She had waited until she was certain everyone must be abed before creeping downstairs to retrieve the book she’d left in her haste to escape the parlour earlier that day. It was the only way she had slept at all these past days, by reading until she was too tired to keep her eyes open. But then she’d seen him, walking about the house in the dark, all alone. She had watched him for a while, seen him touch a finger to the petal of a Christmas rose and stand admiring the decorations. At first she’d smiled at the sight, for he’d seemed like a boy, full of wonder on the most exciting night of the year, except then she’d caught sight of his expression in the firelight and known he was looking upon this as an outsider, curious to know about the world other people lived in.
He’s not something you can mend, Georgie. This is your life. It isn’t your job to fix him because he’s broken. He might break you if you’re fool enough to try.
Except something inside of her did not believe that and knotted up in her belly, tight and anxious. Georgie lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, a small slip of paper clutched tight in her hand.
Chapter 18
August,
If you are looking for a quiet, biddable wife, I suggest you give Miss Anson a wide berth. She is a headstrong female with a mind of her own and ‘opinions’. Your mama would adore her.
Frankly, if a creature as beautiful as that has given you anything resembling encouragement, I should say ‘tally ho’ and ‘Godspeed’. Why on earth would you want to marry a milk and water female when you could have one like that? She’ll lead you a merry dance, I grant you, but it will be a devilish lot of fun along the way.
―Excerpt of a letter to Mr August Lane-Fox from his friend, The Most Hon’ble, Lawrence Grenville, The Marquess of Bainbridge.
25th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.
Georgie surveyed the parlour. The hour was growing late, and everyone was too full to move after the most splendid Christmas dinner imaginable. Jules had given up on being sociable an hour ago and was stretched out in an armchair, snoring softly. His sister Lottie had fallen asleep against her husband, Cass’s shoulder, while he sketched Evie and the comte. They were both intent on a game of whist, their concentration absolute. The children had been allowed to stay up late, far too excited and full of sweetmeats to go to bed yet… except for one-year-old Octavia, who snuggled in the duchess’s arms, blinking sleepily, determined not to miss anything. Her papa looked on fondly and reached out, stroking the baby’s soft cheek and murmuring something that made Aunt Prue smile up at him with adoration shining in her eyes.
Rosamund was doing her best to keep the younger children’s attention on a board game named enticingly, The Majestic Game of the Asiatic Ostrich. From what Georgie could gather, the game itself was less exciting, offering lessons in Ranks and Dignities of the British Peerage, Clergy and Military. Fred and Aggie were most vocal in their demands to play spillikins or another round of charades. Little Harry was sitting on the rug by his mother’s feet in front of the fire, lining up his new toy soldiers in neat ranks.
Octavia finally gave into sleep after being given into her father’s care. The duchess regarded her sleeping daughter with a smile and then reached out, ruffling her small son’s hair affectionately. Harry glanced up from his soldiers and grinned at her before turning back to the war in progress. Georgie looked up to see Rochford watching the boy too, watching the way the duchess’s hand lingered in her son’s soft curls. As if sensing her gaze, Rochford turned towards Georgie, and then looked away. He moved to stand by the window and pulled the curtain back. Large flakes of snow fell outside, soft as down. The perfect Christmas scene.
Rochford pulled the curtain back into place and moved to the duke and duchess.
“Thank you for a wonderful day, duchess,” he said to Aunt Prue. “I shall not forget it.”
Prue smiled at him, her expression warm. “But it’s not over yet,” she reminded him. “Tomorrow—”
“I will be leaving in the morning,” he cut in, his voice firm. “But I thank you kindly for your hospitality.”
Prue’s smile dimmed, but she nodded. “Of course. I am glad Jules brought you. I hope you will visit us again.”
“You are most generous hosts. Duchess, Bedwin, goodnight.”
They bade him goodnight, and he strode to the door, his steps slowing as he passed Georgie. He did not look at her, but spoke quietly.
“Happy Christmas, my lady.”
Georgie watched him leave, watched the door close upon him and felt her heart speed with panic. He would leave in the morning. He would go back to Mulcaster and be alone with whatever made him so wretched and no one else would ever be brave enough to get past his defences. That didn’t mean she had to, she reminded herself. He was a grown man. He had choices. He did not need to be so antisocial.
Except he did not know how to change, and never would if no one had the time or patience or care enough to show him how.
She swallowed, panic thrumming her blood, her breath coming too fast. Fumbling in the pocket of her skirts, she found the crumpled slip of paper and smoothed it out on her lap, staring down at the words. There was no one else she wanted to kiss under the mistletoe. But there was always next year. She didn’t have to do it now. There was time. It wasn’t as if she was an old maid. Oh, lud, what was she to do? Between overindulging at dinner and her racing heart, she thought her corset might squeeze the life from her. Pressing a hand to her chest, she felt the too fast rhythm battering against her ribs and caught Aunt Prue’s eye. She lifted an eyebrow at Georgie and then stared at the door.
Oh…. To the devil with it.
Georgie leapt to her feet and hurried out. She ran to the great hall. He was there, heading for the stairs.
“Rochford!”
He turned at once, and Georgie gave a little huff of laughter as she saw where he stood. Fate perhaps, for above his head was a kissing bough. The sphere-shaped decoration was made of ivy and studded with holly berries, and beneath, tied with red ribbon, dangled a large bunch of mistletoe.
His grey eyes were wary as she hurried towards him, stopping in front of him, too uncertain to act.
“
Georgie,” he said, his voice husky. “I’m so sorry. I ought not to have rushed you—”
She didn’t let herself think about it, but reached up and put her hands on either side of his face and pulled his head down for a kiss. It was only a brief press of lips and, though the temptation was to linger, she stood back, biting back a smile at the bewildered look in his eyes. Standing on tiptoe, she reached up and plucked a mistletoe berry from the bunch. There were only two left now. Staff and family alike must have stolen plenty of kisses.
“Come to Scotland,” she said, her voice breathless, putting the berry into his hands. “And we’ll see. Merry Christmas, Rochford.” And then she turned and ran back to the parlour.
Rochford blinked, but she was gone. For a moment he was certain he’d imagined it, for he’d spent a distressing amount of time these past days daydreaming such scenes, like some lovesick boy. He’d told himself he was a bloody fool, but it had changed nothing. He’d imagined it over and over. Georgie running into his arms and telling him he was forgiven, that she loved him and wanted him. Ridiculous, romantic nonsense of course, but—Rochford looked down into his hand, and the tiny white berry in his palm. It was real. She’d kissed him. She’d kissed him and told him to come to Scotland. She’d given him a kiss. A kiss and a chance.
He let out an unsteady breath and felt the unfamiliar upward curve of his lips. Merry Christmas, Rochford. By God. This was the best Christmas he’d ever had in his entire life, and this time, this time, he would not squander the chance he’d been given. This time he would not bollocks it up.
Evie grasped Louis’ hand and tugged him into the dark alcove, pressing a finger to his lips to silence his exclamation.
“Shhh,” she whispered, as his blue eyes widened in surprise. She heard his breath catch, no doubt shocked by her behaviour again, but she grinned up at him. “Look.” She mouthed the word and pointed to the scene in the grand hallway as Georgie ran up to Rochford.
Louis’ hand tightened upon hers as they saw Georgie pull the duke’s head down for a kiss and then stole a mistletoe berry from the bough. They watched the scene in silence until both parties had left. Rochford walking slowly away, with a wide, dazed smile upon his lips.
“She completed her dare,” Evie said, delighted. “I knew she liked him.”
“That was her dare?” Louis asked softly.
Evie looked up to see his eyes glinting in the darkness. “Yes. To kiss a man under the mistletoe. She’s wanted Rochford from the start, but she’s afraid of him, too. I can’t say that I blame her, either. He’s rather daunting.”
“Do you have a dare, Evie?”
Evie shook her head, blushing. “I was too afraid to take one, isn’t that ridiculous? I rather despise myself for it. I’m so spineless, Louis. I wish I were braver, but I’m not.”
Louis scowled, shaking his head. “You’re nothing of the sort. You’re brave enough to rake me over the coals when I’m in the wrong, and there aren’t many who would do that.”
“Because I trust you,” she said, giving him a wry smile. “I find other people harder to navigate and the idea of everyone looking at me makes me feel queasy.”
She pulled a face and Louis chuckled.
“Not everyone wants to be the centre of attention, at least not all the time. Though I think you enjoyed your time as belle of the ball.”
She snorted at the idea she’d been the belle. “Hardly that,” she protested. “But yes, I had fun. I’ve never danced so much in my life.”
“And you’re not… disappointed?” he asked. “About Rochford.”
“Disappointed?” she repeated, puzzled, and then laughed. “You think I was hoping to be his duchess? Good heavens, you’re as daft as Georgie. Do you know she was jealous because I danced with him? As if that was ever in the cards.”
He shrugged, looking away from her. “He’s a duke. You’d have status and wealth—”
“And a man who speaks in grunts and a castle in the middle of nowhere,” she cut in, shaking her head. “I think he’s a good man, and that perhaps Georgie is strong enough to stand up to him when he’s being difficult. She also loves living in the wilds, and stomping miles through mud and rain is her idea of fun. I’d rather read a good book tucked up by the fire with a cup of chocolate in my hand.”
Louis gave a soft laugh and reached out, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “And you need society. You need people around you and noise and bustle so you can arrange everyone and everything just as you like.”
“Heavens, you make me sound like a despot,” she said indignantly. “It seems I must make many more New Year’s resolutions than I had bargained for.”
“What ones were you planning on making?” he asked.
Evie considered, growing aware that they really ought not linger in the alcove alone. If it were any other man, he might get the wrong idea, but Louis knew her too well to mistake her intentions.
“To have more fun,” she said sheepishly. It wasn’t a very noble aspiration after all, when one should probably resolve to do more work for charity, or to improve one’s mind, or at least eat less cake.
“I should like to help with that,” he said gravely.
Evie nodded, equally serious. “I hope you will.”
“What else?”
She hesitated, and Louis waited patiently for her answer. “Not to heed others’ opinions of me when my friends like me as I am. And to be more confident, which is perhaps the same thing. I began at the Christmas ball, and you were right, you know. I had a marvellous time, though it was all because of that gown. It made me feel so much more at ease. Silly, isn’t it?”
Louis shook his head. “Not silly at all. Clothes are a kind of armour. Knowing you are dressed correctly and well puts you at ease.”
She gave him a speculative look. “Surely, you do not need such armour, Louis. You would look handsome wearing rags and, you know it.”
He quirked a dark eyebrow at her. “I am far too vain to appear anything less than perfectly attired. Besides which, Elton would likely cast himself into the Thames if I did such a reprehensible thing. He considers himself an artist, you see, and me, his canvas.”
“How tiring for you, and you know you’re not the least bit vain, so don’t give me that.”
“Oh, but I am,” he insisted. “More than you realise.”
She frowned at him, uncertain of his words, which held a private note. “You liked your Christmas present?” she asked him, changing the subject.
“You know I did,” he said, touching a finger to the large blue sapphire pin winking in his cravat. “Though you ought not to have bought it for me.”
Evie shrugged. “I know, but I could not help myself. I had never seen a stone the exact colour of your eyes before and it called to me. I was there to buy a gift for Jules and pretended it was for him. Mama was too busy with her gifts to notice.”
“I suppose I ought to give you a gift too,” he said, his eyes dancing with amusement.
Evie gasped, glaring at him. “Oh, you wretch! You waited until now when you knew I was bursting with anticipation.”
“Did you really think I had not bought you a gift? How cruel you must think me.”
“You are cruel for teasing me so!” she reproached him, tugging him out of the alcove. “May I have it now, Louis? Please!”
He laughed and nodded. “I hid it in the library. Go and look among the novels and see what you can find.”
With a little cry of excitement, Evie picked up her skirts and ran.
Chapter 19
Mr Lane-Fox,
Your company is requested at:
Cavendish House
For the event of
The Viscountess Cavendish’s New Year’s Ball.
Cavendish House, The Strand, London.
―Excerpt of an invitation to Mr August Lane-Fox from The Right Hon’ble Aashini Anson, Viscountess Cavendish.
30th December 1840, Wildsyde Castle, Scotland.
“Georgie!�
�
Georgie squealed as her father caught her up and swung her around, just as if she were a little girl again, which she most certainly was not.
“Pa!” she laughed, clutching at her bonnet. “I’ve only been gone a few weeks.”
“Dinnae ever go again! Leastways not at Christmastime. Ach, I missed you, lass.” He hugged her again and kissed her cheek.
“I missed you too, Pa.”
“And do you think I might get to greet my daughter, you big ox. Give me some room,” her mother scolded, pretending to push Pa aside, which was about as much use as pushing at the castle walls whether she meant it or not.
“Stop bullying me you dreadful woman. I saw her first,” Pa grumbled, but winked at Georgie and stepped aside so she could hug her mother.
“I’m so pleased to see you, Mama,” Georgie said with a sigh of relief as her mother hugged her. Mama looked up, perhaps noting the anxiety in her voice, though Georgie tried to hide it. But Mama was perceptive and nothing much got past her.
“Yes, I think we’ve a lot of catching up to do,” her mother said, her eyes glinting with interest as she patted Georgie’s cheek. “But first tea. Mrs MacLeod has been cooking up a storm and there’re more cakes and biscuits than we can possibly eat in a sennight, so I hope you’re good and hungry.”
“I’m famished,” replied a deep voice from behind her, and Georgie turned to see her brother, Muir. At three and twenty, he was a strapping, brawny young man, and much like his father, with wild tawny hair like a lion’s mane and hazel eyes. “Back, are ye?” He was filthy, his heavy boots caked in mud as was the rest of him, his kilt sodden and dirty, and his shirt had fared no better. Heaven alone knew what had become of his coat. He looked like someone had dragged him through a ditch.
“Have you been wrestling pigs again?” Georgie asked, because even for Muir, he was in a frightful state.
The Mistletoe Dare (Daring Daughters Book 8) Page 19
