Page 12 of The Mistletoe Dare

Rochford walked back towards Beverwyck, the frost hardened grass crunching beneath his boots. He was still simmering after his confrontation with Lady Georgina, though why she’d annoyed him so he could not fathom. She was just another brainless debutante, except this one had an urge to be a do-gooder. Her kindness would get her or a member of staff into trouble one day, but she’d not heed him, so he might have saved his breath.

A delicious scent drifted upon the cold air as he drew closer to the house. Rochford stopped, sniffing appreciatively. He’d been walking for some time, trying to shake off a growing sense of restlessness, and had found himself on the side of the house where the kitchens and utility buildings lay out of sight of the grander parts of the property. Not that they were shabby. Everything about Beverwyck was immaculate and revealed a sharp eye for beauty and detail. The sound of a door opening had him turning, and he muttered a curse as he saw Lady Georgina step outside. Typical. Just what he needed. He was considering ducking behind a well-placed oak tree in order to escape her when she looked up. She stiffened at the sight of him, a reaction which only irritated him further, though heaven alone knew why. It wasn’t as if he wanted the blasted woman to like him. No one liked him. They respected him, feared him, and damn well did what he said, but they didn’t like him. He didn’t have friends who liked him. Well, apart from Blackwood, but he had a warped sense of humour and was somewhat eccentric, so he could be excused for his judgement, which was clearly unsound.

The kitchen was set on the lower floors and, as he could not now escape, Rochford waited as she climbed the stairs back up to ground level. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the kitchen and her thick, curling hair was escaping its pins on all sides. Rochford had a sudden and unwelcome vision of how she might look beneath him as she cried out in passion, her lovely skin pink for an entirely different reason. He stamped on the image at once, but it was too late and his body reacted, his skin feeling two sizes too small as desire flared with an accompanying rush of heat.

“The famous shortbread, I surmise,” he said, jerking his head at the tin box she carried.

“Yes,” she replied, looking wary, as well she might.

The scent of butter and sugar clung to her, and Rochford’s mouth watered. Damn the shortbread, she looked good enough to eat.

She hesitated for a moment before tugging the lid off and offering the tin to him. “Try one.”

“I don’t like sweets,” Rochford growled, aware he sounded ungrateful and churlish but unable to stop himself.

“Try anyway. You’ll like these,” she predicted, annoying him further.

He’d just told her he didn’t have a sweet tooth, hadn’t he? She waved the tin under his nose, clearly not about to take no for an answer. Rochford gave a long-suffering sigh and looked at the biscuits, which had been made in the shape of a thistle. He picked out a golden piece, studded all over with sugar, and put the whole thing in his mouth, chewing reluctantly. Butter and sweetness and a crumbly, rich texture filled his mouth, and it was all he could do not to moan with pleasure. He was damned if he’d let her know that, though. He scowled and shrugged.

“It’s a biscuit.”

She gave a derisive snort and glared at him in outrage. “It’s not just a biscuit. It’s shortbread!”

Rochford regarded her with amusement. He’d never guessed someone could get so furious over a biscuit.

“Shortbread is a superior biscuit. It is the king of biscuits and you enjoyed it, you’re just being stubborn.”

Rochford felt his eyebrows go up. “The king of biscuits?” he repeated sceptically.

She flushed harder but put up her chin. “Aye.”

Ah, and there was the Scottish accent she hid, emerging because she was flustered.

“Aye,” he repeated, smiling. It was a mistake. He’d not meant to mock her, but she clearly took it as such.

“Aye,” she repeated, her voice louder and harder now as she crammed the lid back on the tin. “So awa’ n bile yer heid!”

Rochford’s mouth fell open, though he was uncertain whether he was more stunned by the thick Scottish accent or the fact she’d just told him to go boil his head. He had no opportunity to react or retaliate, though, as she turned and stalked away, and he could do nothing but watch the mesmerising sway of her glorious backside as she went.

Chapter 4

Dearest Aisling,

Do you remember when I last visited you and I joked about you making a love potion and you said such things really existed. Do they work? And could you make one? Only, I know how clever you are with herbs and medicines, and I just wondered because —

―Excerpt of a letter from The Lady Rosamund Adolphus (daughter of Robert and Prudence Adolphus, their graces, The Duke and Duchess of Bedwin) to Lady Aisling Baxter (daughter of Luke and Kitty Baxter, The Earl and Countess of Trevick).

8th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

The rude, aggravating, impossible man! Georgie seethed all the way back to her room, flinging the tin of shortbread down and snatching at the ribbons of her bonnet.

“Stop tugging at them like that, ye’ll get them all fankled,” Meg scolded, moving closer to smack her hands away.

Georgie huffed but stood like an obedient child as Meg removed her bonnet and took her coat. Her maid gave her a squint-eyed look and correctly interpreted her mood.

“What’s got ye crabbit now? You were in a fine mood when ye went down the stairs.”

“Rochford,” Georgie said, folding her arms.