Page 23 of The Mistletoe Dare

Georgie wanted to reach up and stroke his face, to show him she wasn’t like the others, that she wasn’t afraid of him. Thankfully, some fraying shred of sanity remained, and she kept her hand glued to his shoulder, but she could not tear her eyes from his.

The dance ended, and Georgie was uncertain if it was too soon or if that had been an eternity. Her head was spinning, and her heart was pounding and….

“Well. You’ve had your dance. I’m off. Goodnight.”

Rochford stalked away, leaving her in the middle of the ballroom by herself.

Chapter 7

The dress is ready for a fitting.

Tonight.

―Excerpt of a note to Miss Evie Knight (daughter of Mr Gabriel and Lady Helena Knight) from Louis César de Montluc, Comte de Villen – slipped under her door.

12th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

Georgie didn’t care. No. Not at all. Four days of being ignored didn’t bother her one little bit. She simply did not give a fig. She didn’t. So what if Rochford hadn’t spoken a word to her since the night of the rout? That was his loss. Not hers. Especially not when she was sitting next to the Comte de Villen at dinner this evening.

Goodness, but he was breath-taking. If she wasn’t careful, she’d just spend the entire evening gazing at him like an idiot. It took her a moment to realise she was doing just that and that Evie, sat on her other side, was speaking to her.

“You’ve not heard a word I’ve said, have you?” Evie smiled, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

Georgie returned a rueful expression. “Sorry.”

“It’s understandable. I know women find him dreadfully distracting.”

“Don’t you?” Georgie asked, bending closer to Evie and lowering her voice. How Evie could be around Louis and not just sit sighing over him she couldn’t fathom.

Evie shook her head. “No. I mean, I can see he’s beautiful, obviously. I’m not blind, but he was my friend first. Perhaps when we met, I was just too young to see him in a romantic light and it stuck. Or perhaps he’s just not my type,” she added, laughing at Georgie’s sceptical expression.

“You’re an odd duck, Evie,” Georgie replied, shaking her head.

“Lady Georgina,” Georgie turned her head and was immediately struck dumb by Louis’ brilliant blue eyes. “Your napkin.”

He held the folded square out to her, which must have slid off the silky skirts of her dress.

Georgie swallowed. She didn’t seem able to speak. Or move.

Louis smiled gently, took her hand and placed the napkin in it, and returned his attention to his dinner. Georgie felt the blush all the way to her toes. Hurriedly, she stuffed the napkin back in her lap and elbowed Evie, who was sniggering uncontrollably.

“Shut up,” she muttered, mortified.

Glancing up at the table, her gaze collided with the Duke of Rochford. His sneer seemed more pronounced than ever, perhaps because of the rigid set to his jaw. Appalled that the duke might have seen her behaving like such a prize ninny, Georgie put her head down and concentrated on eating.

After dinner, everyone retired to the parlour for tea or brandy. Aunt Prue had banished the tradition of the men sitting over their port by themselves as soon as she’d become duchess, but as it was an informal gathering, the port was available in the parlour for those who wished, or tea for those abstaining. Thankfully, there were no parlour games this evening, for which Georgie was grateful. She wondered if her aunt had done that deliberately, to ensure it did not make Rochford uncomfortable.

Everyone seemed relaxed and in good spirits. The scent of Christmas lingered in the air, the warmth of the fire fluttering the red silk ribbons of the decorations, and stirring the thick arrangement of holly and fir and evergreen studded with cinnamon sticks on the mantelpiece. For a moment, Georgie acknowledged a pang of homesickness. Christmas at Wildsyde was always a jolly affair. Mama had such a knack for decorating the castle and making everything seem magical. Even her brothers were tolerable during the festive season and made time to go sleighing with her, even if their snowball fights became rather violent. She decided she must write to them tomorrow and tell them everything that had happened since she’d arrived. Well, perhaps not everything. She could certainly leave the duke out of any correspondence. The great, overbearing—

“Lady Georgina.”

Georgie let out a yelp as the deep voice rumbled in her ear.

Well, speak of the great, overbearing lout and he shall appear.

“Your grace,” she said, pleased with herself for sounding so cool and detached when her heart had begun a riot behind her ribs.

“Did you enjoy dinner?”