Page 1 of The Mistletoe Dare

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 as 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.