Page 13 of The Mistletoe Dare

“Ach, he’s a fine, big fellow, so he is,” Meg said with a dreamy sigh. “A face like a slapped arse, I grant ye, but ye need not look at him in the dark, hen.”

“Meg!” Georgie exclaimed. She was well used to Meg’s rather forthright manner of speech, but still.

Meg looked back at her, all innocence. “What? Don’t tell me he doesn’t get your heart going pitty-patty when ye consider those big, brawny arms about ye. Why he could lift ye like a feather, and there are few men ye can say that about, for you’re a fine, braw lassie, but no delicate flower.”

Georgie ignored the observation about her stature, having heard it often enough before. “He’s rude and arrogant and the most annoying man that ever walked the earth!”

“Give him something better to do than flap his gums, then. I could think of better uses for his—”

“That’s enough,” Georgie cut in, horrified.

Meg smirked, sashaying off with her bonnet and pelisse to put them away. Good heavens, what a thought. Her and Rochford, of all men. Georgie shook her head, incredulous at the idea of kissing a man like Rochford, at the thought of those muscular arms going around her, that huge, powerful body pressed to hers. She imagined those cold grey eyes staring at her with warmth, and that overbearing man who looked like a brutal warrior treating her with gentleness and affection. A surge of heat swept over her, stealing her breath and making her feel giddy. Good Lord. Surely, she couldn’t be attracted to that bad-tempered devil. No. That was… it couldn’t… it wasn’t possible.

Oh no!

Georgie sat down on the bed with a thud and tested the theory again, cautiously imagining the duke of Rochford sweeping her into his arms and kissing her. With horror, she realised her heart was racing, a fine prickle of sweat flushing her skin, and a strange aching sensation had begun deep inside her.

Oh, dear heaven. This was a disaster. Rochford? Of all men, she had to find herself wanting that great ill-mannered oaf? Georgie groaned and put her head in her hands. This was bad. This was very, very bad.

Gathering herself, Georgie took a deep breath. Very well. She was utterly deranged and found the great ox appealing. It wasn’t the end of the world. She just needed to stay away from him and ensure they were never in close proximity, never alone together. Besides which, he clearly couldn’t stand the sight of her. He thought she was a mannerless, ignorant hoyden, and he’d mocked her accent when it had slipped, the beast. So, unless she threw herself at him—which she was certainly not going to do—she ought to be safe enough.

Comforted by the thought, Georgie steeled her spine and went back downstairs.

She found the family in their favourite parlour, one which they only allowed very close friends to enter. All the furniture was comfortable and worn just enough to make it clear this was a well-used space. Books and magazines littered the tabletops, and drawing pencils and sketchbooks lay abandoned next to half-finished pieces of needlework. It was warm and cosy, especially as the bright morning had gradually clouded over into a grey late afternoon, and a fine drizzle of rain fell as the daylight waned.

Everyone was playing charades, and Ozzie had just begun her turn, with everyone shouting at once and giving completely opposing suggestions.

Georgie grinned as she entered, amused to see everyone taking part. Everyone except for Rochford. He stood apart, leaning back against the low windowsill, watching the proceedings with a frown. She got the impression he hadn’t the least idea what was going on.

“Turning,” Jules shouted at Ozzie, who threw up her hands in frustration. “Well, you are turning round and round,” Jules retorted.

“Dizzy?” Aunt Prue suggested.

“Lost! She’s lost,” seven-year-old Harry said.

Aunt Prue ruffled his hair affectionately. “What a good guess!”

Georgie looked back at Rochford. He’d crossed his muscular arms over his chest and was still scowling. Like a big angry bear. Yet, the longer she looked, Georgie could not help but wonder if he was more puzzled than angry. It was so hard to tell when he appeared so fierce all the time, and that scar gave him a look of permanent disdain, making him dreadfully intimidating. Despite her annoyance with him for mocking her earlier, and in opposition of her better judgement, Georgie went to stand beside him.

He straightened at the sight of her, his arms falling to his sides.

“Have you never played charades?” she asked.

Rochford returned an incredulous expression.

“No,” he said, terse as ever, confirming her suspicions.

She wondered at that. How could he never have played? It was such a common pastime.

“Not even as a boy?”

He snorted. “Especially not as a boy.”

Georgie frowned. “Why not?”

She was unsurprised by the impatient huff of irritation but stared at him, awaiting his answer.

“I inherited the title when I was seven years old. Dukes don’t play games. They’ve more important things to occupy themselves with.”