Page 11 of Mistletoe Minx

But this time, she paused and took several deep breaths of the frigid air. Anything to cool her absolute fury.

Not only had her husband given her a glimpse of passionate marital relations then cruelly ripped it away, he’d compounded the crime with the most impersonal of ducal apologies: a brief written note and a blasted wrist-breaker of a diamond bracelet!

Of course he wouldn’t join her for breakfast, or request a private conversation to actually ask her thoughts and wishes on bedchamber matters. No, the almighty Duke of Dashford knew all, and that was that.

Frances’ fists clenched. Perhaps it was a good thing she had breakfasted alone; her husband might have ended up wearing coddled eggs.

But just before she left St. James’s Square, an even greater blow: overhearing the butler and housekeeper discussing Dashford’s plans to attend the Warenne house party without her. The one described as a decadent feast for the discerning senses. Dashford wished to do those wicked, delicious acts with another woman. A bold, experienced woman. Not his dull, silly wife who couldn’t even fulfil her heir duty.

Tears burned her eyes. Christmastide was supposed to be the season of good cheer and miracles, yet it was difficult to feel anything other than defeated.

“Your Grace! My humblest apologies, I did not realize you were waiting out here in the cold!”

Frances smiled ruefully at the Kyles’ butler, who stood in the doorway looking entirely nonplussed. “My fault entirely, I was woolgathering. But now my eyes are watering, so please do allow me inside before they ice over.”

In no time at all she was ushered to Rachel’s cream-and-green parlor, a wonderfully warm, spacious room with well-padded chaises and leather armchairs, low tables for tea or cards, and large windows that allowed in plenty of natural light, but also offered splendid views of the enclosed park in the middle of Grosvenor Square.

“Frances!” said Rachel, as she hurried into the parlor, Celia right behind her. “Ah, excellent, tea is on the table. We were just settling Cassie and Matilda in the nursery; this is strictly adult time.”

“Good morning. I…er…” Frances began, but entirely without consent, the tears that had burned outside spilled over and down her cheeks.

“Dearest!” exclaimed Celia, as she herded Frances onto a chaise and sat beside her, curling her arm around Frances’ shoulders. “What happened?”

Rachel poured tea, and quickly handed Frances a steaming cup. “Drink.”

Sipping the hot, sweet beverage allowed Frances a few minutes to collect herself. After setting the cup down, she took a bracing breath. “I scarcely know where to begin. Last night, late last night…Dashford still hadn’t retired. I was concerned and went down to his library, then ah…”

Celia’s eyes widened as she sipped her own tea. “Then? Then what!”

“He’d been drinking. I was scolded for not wearing slippers. Dashford sat me on his desk and chafed my feet…then…uh…”

Rachel quirked an eyebrow. “Proceeded to take you like the rakish devil he is?”

“Yes! Well…nearly. He said some wicked things and tore the bodice of my night rail, and I know that might sound bad but it was very exciting. He…he kissed my breasts and stroked my inner thigh and nothing has ever felt so wonderful and I wanted him to have me right there on the desk. I even said ‘Please don’t stop’…but he did. And he apologized. But it gets worse. Earlier, Dashford did not have breakfast downstairs. Instead, his valet presented me with a short note of regret and an awful diamond bracelet that I shall never wear because it weighs more than London Bridge. After that, I overheard the butler and housekeeper discussing Dashford’s intention to attend the Warenne house party. Without me. I think…I think he hopes to find a mistress,” Frances finished in a haunted whisper as she slumped on the chaise in a most unladylike fashion.

Rachel and Celia both gasped.

“I’m at a loss,” said Frances, her fingers twisting together. “I already know he doesn’t love me, but he truly doesn’t want me either.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Rachel slowly. “That is now two occasions where he has behaved rakishly toward you…then pulled back. Perhaps he desires you a great deal but is uncertain how to proceed with a wife.”

“He could talk to me! I was willing. So very willing.”

Celia sighed. “Talk to his wife? An English duke? Ha. Alas, many noblemen have a maggot in their head about ladies and mistresses. A lady is proper, delicate, and just for show; a mistress is for lusty play. Forgive me, Rachel, but your brother had a mild case of this affliction. I had to forcefully cure him of it.”

There was a cure?

“What exactly did you do?” asked Frances urgently.

“I behaved like a shameless harlot and pounced on him,” laughed Celia, her cheeks turning pink. “Harry was shocked…but very, very appreciative. From that day on, our marital relations were excellent. These men…sometimes you can tell them something until your lips fall off, but it is the showing that makes them understand. Frances, last night you took some promising first steps, invading Dashford’s library. But now you must be the boldest minx who ever minxed.”

Rachel leaned forward to select an apple tart from the silver tea tray. “Celia is correct. And for you, that means attending the Warenne house party.”

Frances frowned. “There is no way on God’s green earth Dashford will permit that. He nearly flattened a lord who suggested it at your ball.”

“So do not tell him.”

A part of her recoiled at the thought of such willful disobedience.