Page 17 of The Mistletoe Dare

“Perhaps he’s shy,” Aunt Prue suggested mildly.

A tea tray had arrived in Georgie’s absence and the duchess was pouring out steaming cups.

Georgie stared at her. “Shy?”

For a moment she considered the duke, all six foot seven of him. He was hardly slow in telling her how she ought to behave. He wasn’t shy about that, now, was he? Nor was he shy in calling her friends a pack of fools, or accusing her of wanting to marry him for his title.

“He’s not shy,” she muttered crossly.

Aunt Prue handed her a cup, made just how Georgie liked it. “Then, perhaps he doesn’t know how to play games.”

Georgie gave a reluctant shrug. “He doesn’t. He said he never played games as a child.”

“The poor man. How dreadfully sad,” her aunt said, watching Georgie intently. “I wonder what kind of life he’s had, to be so alone, and not know how to play games?”

“A bloody awful one, from the bits I’ve pieced together over the years,” Jules said, his expression thoughtful. “That’s why I invited him. He’s got this huge draughty castle down in the wilds of Cumbria, but he never speaks of family, and I know he hasn’t any friends. Well, except me.”

“Why are you friends, Jules?” Georgie asked, wondering how two such unlikely men could get along.

Jules shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah, well. He’s a good fellow underneath all that growling and bluster. You just have to persevere. He’s not an easy man, I’ll grant you. He’s irascible and prickly, and bloody-minded and—good Lord, why am I friends with him?”

His mother laughed and reached over to ruffle his hair as if he was a small boy. “Because you have a kind heart,” she said affectionately.

Jules grumbled and made a show of smoothing down his hair, but Georgie suspected he didn’t really mind. She took her tea back to her chair and sat down, frowning into the golden liquid. With a sigh of frustration, she took a sip, and then another. By the time she’d finished, she didn’t feel quite so out of sorts, just a bit… unsettled. Feeling eyes upon her, Georgie looked up to see her aunt was still watching her. Prue smiled.

“Perhaps the duke needs another chance,” she suggested.

Georgie snorted at that. “I’m certain he’s already had at least three, and I only met him yesterday.”

Prue chuckled and set down her teacup. “Well, I think Rochford might need a lot of chances, perhaps to make up for all the ones he’s missed until now.”

Georgie groaned inwardly. Well, now she felt guilty, and the wretched man had been utterly vile. Surely she could be furious with him? Yes, she decided. She could certainly be furious with him, but… but perhaps Prue was right. Perhaps he deserved a few more chances. Just in case.

“Nobody wants me there, for the love of God. Why must you keep harping on about this damned party?” Rochford groaned.

His patience was wearing thin, but Blackwood seemed determined to break it entirely.

“In the first place, you ought to show your face in society now and then, because it might stop people from believing you are some mad beast who eats small children for breakfast.”

Rochford snorted. “Well, that’s a steaming pile of horse shite. What the devil do I care what they think? What’s the second place? Get it over with, so we can abandon this farce, will you?”

Blackwood gave a long-suffering sigh, but carried on. “In the second place, I think perhaps there is someone who wants you there.”

“If you say you, I’m going to toss your sorry carcass out the nearest window,” Rochford warned, getting up and stalking to the whisky decanter.

They’d retired to the comfortable suite of rooms the duke and duchess had assigned him for his stay, and Blackwood had sprawled in a chair by the fire, looking every inch the pampered, indolent aristocrat.

“God, you’re violent,” Blackwood complained, tutting at him. “And of course I want you there, but—”

He made a staying motion as Rochford turned back to him with a challenging glint in his eye.

“—but that’s not what I meant. I think Lady Georgina wants you there, too.”

Rochford was so startled he nearly dropped the decanter and wasted a good deal of very fine whisky. “Have you lost your mind? The woman hates me.”

“And why would that be?” Blackwood asked, his tone conversational.

Rochford avoided his all-too-knowing gaze and made a production of pouring the drinks. He handed one to his friend, still avoiding making eye contact, and sat down. He took a large swallow and stared down into his glass.