Page 16 of The Mistletoe Dare

To Rochford’s utter astonishment, she reached a hand up, as if to touch him. He grabbed her wrist before she could and she gasped, her gaze flying to his. Fleetingly he saw fear waver there, and he expected her to snatch her wrist free, but she relaxed in his hold, making him feel foolish for the second time that day.

“Are you really so terrified of a mere female? I would not scratch your eyes out, you know. No matter how provoking you are.”

Perplexed, Rochford let her go. Her hand hung suspended in mid-air, and then she closed the space, tracing the ragged line of the scar that deeply scored the right side of his face. His breath caught and held, his lungs trapped in a vice as emotions he neither recognised nor welcomed ran riot inside him. Her touch was gentle, so careful, and he wasn’t certain if he wanted to howl with rage or weep for the feelings she stirred inside him.

“You were lucky not to lose your eye,” she observed, studying the scar, her voice soft.

“Yes. Lucky,” he replied bitterly, though he could not have moved if his life depended on it, bespelled by the gentle warmth of her fingertips.

“It’s really not so fearsome,” she said, and then her whisky coloured eyes met his. “And I think perhaps… neither are you.”

Longing exploded inside him, so fierce and overwhelming that it terrified him. He’d spent too much of his life learning not to want or need anyone. He was damned if he’d start now and let this sly chit get under his skin. Who the hell did she think she was, touching his scars and looking at him as if he didn’t repel her? Well, she might be a damned fine actress—all those years playing bloody charades, no doubt—but she didn’t fool him. Rochford pushed her hand away and stepped back, putting distance between them.

“I don’t go to balls, and I don’t suffer fools, Lady Georgina, so whatever little game it is you’re playing at, forget it. If you’re angling to be my duchess, you’re barking up the wrong bloody tree. I won’t marry you, so cast your lures elsewhere.”

“My lures?” she repeated faintly, blinking up at him as if she’d just snapped out of a trance. “You think I….”

A blush scalded her fair skin, so fierce he could feel the heat of it rising from her.

He frowned, mystified once again by this bewildering woman, for he knew she couldn’t have been sincere.

She put her chin up.

“You really are an obnoxious arse,” she said, and hurried away from him.

But not before he’d seen the tears in her eyes.

Rochford stood there for a long moment after she’d gone. He hadn’t the faintest idea what had just happened, though the realisation that he’d behaved badly—again—was more unwelcome than usual. He always acted like an obnoxious arse and, he reminded himself, he didn’t give a damn for the consequences. Except, it seemed like he gave a damn this time and that… that was troubling. No, not troubling, it was bloody unnerving.

Gingerly, he raised his hand to his cheek, to the place where her fingers had lingered so carefully. He let out an uneven breath, wondering what the hell it all meant, before turning on his heel and hurrying outside.

Chapter 5

Dearest Cat,

I hope this letter finds you well. Are you having a splendid time this Christmas? We are. Eliza and Lottie are both back at Beverwyck with their husbands, and we have Georgie and Evie staying, too, as well as Aggie. She sends her love, by the way. I hope we get to see you soon.

Everyone is off to a rout party this evening, but at least Victoria and Aggie and I may stay up late and play games instead of going to bed like the babies.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Lord Frederick Adolphus (younger son of Their Graces, Robert and Prunella Adolphus, Duke and Duchess of Bedwin) to The Lady Catherine Barrington (daughter of Lucian and Matilda Barrington, The Most Hon’ble Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu).

8th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

Georgie stalked back to the parlour, as cross as a baited badger. Oh, the nerve of the man. And to think she’d been feeling sorry for him, the aggravating lout. Well, good. At least now she could put aside any unruly and inappropriate feelings for him. Currently, the only thing she wanted to do to him was hit him with a heavy blunt object, not that it would dent his thick skull. Still, it was all for the good, for there had been a disconcerting moment when she had stood looking up at him, her fingers tracing the line of that ugly scar. She had been certain they’d had a connection, that for a moment she had glimpsed beneath the angry façade and what she’d seen had made her heart ache, had made her want to kiss him. Thank God she hadn’t acted on it. The horrid creature would have believed it proof positive she was trying to seduce him for his title! As if she’d want to spend the rest of her days tied to a fiend like that.

Everyone looked up, staring at her as she flounced back into the room. It took her a moment to realise she had done nothing to disguise her fury. Her cheeks were flushed with irritation and she no doubt looked ready to do murder—after having flown from the room in pursuit of the Duke of Rochford.

Oh.

Deciding it was best to go on the offensive, she turned on Jules. “What were you thinking, inviting that beastly man to come for Christmas?” she demanded.

Jules’ eyebrows flew up. “I didn’t want him to be on his own,” he said, candid as ever.

Georgie huffed and folded her arms. “Perhaps there’s a good reason he’s alone,” she groused, aware she hardly sounded as if she was full of goodwill to all men. Though she was, she truly was, just… all men except the Duke of Rochford.

“Undoubtedly,” Jules agreed, watching her with interest but offering nothing more concrete.

“He’s too bloody proud to even join in a game of charades,” she said, brushing irritably at a curl of hair that had escaped its pins. “He can see Uncle Robert playing, but no… he won’t lower himself.”