Page 2 of The Mistletoe Dare

Standing six feet and seven inches high and built with all the finesse of the castle he’d inherited along with his title in the wilds of Cumbria, he was an intimidating figure, and he knew it. Add to his hulking stature a deep, ugly scar that cut through his lip and over his cheek and he cut quite a grotesque figure. The scar narrowly missed his eye before travelling up into his hairline, leaving a patch where the hair did not grow properly. It also twisted his mouth into a permanent sneer. Then there was the pockmarked skin from a severe bout of measles that had almost killed him as a boy. The results were hardly pretty. He’d heard young women snigger and comment that his was a face only a mother could love, but even his own mother couldn’t stand the sight of him, which showed how bloody much they knew. Not that he cared. He was a duke, he was wealthy, and people had to suffer his company whether or not they liked it. Mostly, they didn’t.

He had run into Blackstone during a tavern brawl two years ago. It had been a low dive with a lower clientele and a place the young man had no business going. Recognising Bedwin’s heir and realising the duke would owe him a debt if he hauled his son out of trouble, Rochford had stepped in. He had assumed he’d escort the young cub home, ensure Bedwin knew about the favour he owed, and be done with it, but much to his surprise he’d discovered Blackstone to be an entertaining companion and they had caroused together until the early hours. They’d been friends ever since, though why Blackstone continued to seek him out, Rochford could not fathom.

Blackstone stirred on the seat, stretching and yawning. “Are we there yet?”

“Yes, so you’d best straighten yourself up. You look like you slept in your clothes,” Rochford observed in disgust.

“I did,” Blackstone replied, smirking.

Rochford raised an eyebrow. “And do you wish for your darling mama to know it?”

Blackstone pursed his lips. “A fair point,” he admitted, and set about straightening his attire. He glowered a little at Rochford. “Why aren’t you crumpled?”

“Because I don’t slouch and sprawl like an indolent cat.”

“No, true enough. You’re too uptight. That’s your trouble, Rochford. One day you’ll remove that giant stick from your arse and feel a deal better for it.”

Rochford returned his attention to the passing scenery. “Ah, yes. Now I remember why I keep you around. Such an intelligent and witty conversationalist.”

Blackstone snorted as he tried to retie his cravat, using his reflection in the window. “It’s too damned early for wit and intelligence. Give a fellow a chance to wake up.”

“It’s ten thirty, you idle fop. Hardly the crack of dawn.”

“Too early when you’ve not been to bed,” Blackstone grumbled. “Why aren’t you tired, damn you?”

Rochford shrugged. “Stamina.”

“Stamina, my eye. You’re not normal. Made a deal with the devil, I reckon,” Blackstone grumbled, but halted any further observations about supernatural dealings as the carriage drew up outside his home.

The two friends made their way up the steps of the imposing residence and Rochford wondered once again what on earth had possessed him to accept Blackstone’s invitation. The next three weeks promised to be full of gaiety and entertainment, goodwill to all men and festive cheer, all of which were things that would usually have him running in the opposite direction at speed. Rochford did not like gaiety. He wasn’t the least bit good humoured, and he preferred ill will because then he knew where he stood, dammit. Yet the idea of returning to the vast castle in the wilds of Cumbria that he called home had sent a chill through him, the like of which he’d never known. It had made him feel hollow and cold, and a good many emotions he was not about to analyse. So here he was, with no one to blame but himself, so he’d better bloody well endure it like a man.

Once Georgie had bathed and changed, eaten two large slices of cake, and washed it down with several cups of tea, she felt much more herself, though a headache nagged at her temples still. The journey had been long and fatiguing, and she promised herself a good night’s sleep and a lie in tomorrow. She sent Meg off with strict instructions to have a nap before she did anything else, aware she would suffer the consequences if her maid did not get some rest before she needed to get ready for dinner later. Meg had a clever hand for hair and was the only one who seemed able to contain Georgie’s riot of thick, dark curls with any success. However, she could be ruthless and a little vindictive with hairpins, particularly if she was in a bad mood.

Meg had informed her that several guests had arrived, including Evie Knight, one of Georgie’s best friends. She had not seen Evie since the spring and was looking forward to catching up with her. Not least, she was on pins to set eyes on the mysterious Louis César de Montluc, the Comte de Villen, about whom she’d heard so much. His illegitimate half-brother, Nicolas Alexandre Demarteau, had married the duke and duchess’s eldest daughter, Eliza, causing a terrific stir among the ton. The duke and duchess had disregarded this, welcoming Nic into the family and, along with him, the comte.

Evie had confided how she had befriended Louis César, a circumstance which Georgie found both scandalous and intriguing. That Evie, an unmarried lady only just turned eighteen, had for the past two years apparently been a friend and confidante to a man many years her senior, seemed astonishing. Georgie could not help but wonder why Lady Helena had allowed it, but then she was a sensible woman and presumably she knew best. Whenever anyone but Evie wrote and mentioned the Frenchman, though, all they could speak of was how dreadfully beautiful he was, how deliciously seductive. Phrases like fallen angel, and the handsomest man in the country, perhaps even the world, were repeated often, yet Evie never mentioned him in such a way, insisting they were friends and nothing more. It was all most enthralling.

Making her way down the stairs, Georgie headed towards the library. It was her and Evie’s favourite place at Beverwyck, and she knew Evie would go there to find her when she arrived. A footman had informed her no one else had yet come down, so she would have the plush library all to herself whilst she waited. She pushed open the heavy oak door, inhaling the scent of the grand room as it enveloped her. It was a subtle blend of old books and cigar smoke, polish, and centuries of power and knowledge. Though it was a grand room of vast proportions, with the higher shelves accessed by galleried walkways, it still felt cosy. This was partly thanks to the way some of the doubled sided shelves cut into the room, creating smaller, private spaces. There were snug little nooks to curl up, and window seats where you could look out over the expansive gardens, never suspecting you were in the city at all. She could hear the crackle of a fire blazing in the enormous fireplace and could hardly wait to find an interesting title to sit down with and warm her toes. Suffused with good humour, Georgie shrugged off her tiredness and hurried towards the section she wanted—the novels—and collided with a huge, dark object.

Georgie was not given to hysterics. She had three large, intimidating brothers, and could hold her own with all of them. However, expecting to find herself alone and walking headlong into a stranger was daunting to begin with. Looking up and finding a bear of a man staring at her with cold grey eyes the colour of slate and a face that was hardly friendly was enough to make her give a shriek of alarm.

She stumbled back, tripped on her own skirts, and fell hard on her backside.

“Ouch!”

The man looked down at her in silence, his expression about as warm and welcoming as the Loch of Wester in February.

Georgie took him in, noting quickly the quality of his dress, his bearing, and the large cabochon ruby glinting on his little finger. A guest. A wealthy and powerful guest. One she’d just made a complete fool of herself in front of.

Still, he was hardly acting the gentleman, staring at her in disdain rather than offering her a hand up.

“If you wouldn’t mind?” she said, her tone irritable as she held out a hand to him.

He quirked a thick dark eyebrow, the sneer at his lips leading her to expect a derisive comment. She was not disappointed.

“Are you certain you can bear it?” he asked, and his deep voice rumbled through her.

“Bear what?” she asked in confusion.