Page 22 of The Mistletoe Dare

“You’re blushing,” he said, and drat the man for noticing. “If being seen with me is too dreadful a fate, I’m happy to leave. I never wanted to come in the first place.”

Georgie’s gaze snapped to his. The words had not held a trace of condemnation, only offered her a way out.

“I don’t want you to leave,” she said crossly.

He frowned down at her. Did the man have another expression? “Why are you blushing, then?”

Georgie flushed harder. “Stop asking me that, you’re making it worse.”

“How am I making it worse? I don’t know why you’re blushing.”

“Oh, shut up, will you!” she pleaded, aware that everyone was staring at them.

He obliged her by shutting up, which was a blessing, and they did a circuit of the room in silence as Georgie endured the stares and the whispers. It was horrible. The poor man. How did he stand it? Well, he didn’t, did he? Which was why he never socialised and had all the patience of an angry bear.

Georgie glimpsed swirling skirts and movement through the open doors of the ballroom and realised the dancing had begun.

“Do you dance?” she asked him, before she could think better of it.

He stared at her liked she’d asked if he spoke Swahili.

“I never dance,” he said coldly.

“Yes, I know that, but do you know how to?” she replied, striving for patience.

Another contemptuous glare. “I’m a duke.”

“Excellent,” she said, assuming that meant yes, and began steering him towards the ballroom. Naturally, he planted his feet, which meant tugging at his arm would have about as much effect as trying to move a twenty-foot block of marble. “Oh, do come along,” she pleaded.

“I’m not dancing. I never dance.”

Georgie sighed and released his arm. She turned and looked up at him, keeping her voice soothing. “Well, why don’t you try something different? You never come to parties either, do you, and look how well that’s turned out.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her, imperious devil.

She tsked at him, impatient now. “Stop waggling your eyebrows and trying to look all ducal. It won’t work. I’m immune.”

“I am not trying. I am ducal. And what in the name of God makes you think this has turned out well? Everyone is whispering about us—about you. Do you want to be at the centre of their tittle-tattle?”

“No,” she said frankly. “But I do want to dance and I’m not about to let their wagging tongues stop me.”

He stood watching her, his expression unreadable. Georgie waited.

After what seemed an age, he made his usual harrumphing sound and took her hand, placing it back on his sleeve and strode towards the ballroom, muttering as he went. Naturally, the whispering behind fans increased tenfold as Rochford appeared in the ballroom. It was as if he were some dangerous beast who’d strayed into their territory.

Georgie felt a sudden swell of protectiveness rise inside her, which clearly proved she was utterly deranged. Of all the men who needed protecting here, the duke was the least likely candidate, surely? Yet that was only on the surface. Yes, he was big and fearsome if you took him at face value, and admittedly, getting on the wrong side of his tongue was akin to being lashed with glass paper. Still, she couldn’t help herself. Something in her nature told him he needed looking after even if he didn’t want it.

“Are you quite sure about this?” he asked, his voice even, giving nothing away.

“I am,” Georgie said, though her heart was careening about behind her ribs. “Quite sure.”

“It’s your funeral,” he muttered, and reached for her.

Oh. Oh, this was a bad idea. The worst. Oh, Georgie, you nitwit.

But there was no backing out now.

He danced superbly. Perhaps not with the finesse of some, but for a man of his size to move as he did, and to hold her so carefully… Georgie was melting. Though she enjoyed dancing, Georgie did not enjoy being paired with a man over whose head she could see, which was far too many of them. Not that she minded the men being short—it was no more their fault than that she was tall—only that it made her feel such an elephant in a room full of fairies. It wasn’t a problem with Rochford. His powerful physique made her feel almost delicate by comparison. He certainly held her as though she was, as though he might break her if he wasn’t careful. And then she made the mistake of looking up into his eyes. She didn’t see the scar, nor anything that seemed the least bit out of place. It was simply Rochford, and his dark grey eyes were on her, for once unguarded. He looked like a man stripped bare, like someone seeing the ocean for the first time.