Page 26 of The Mistletoe Dare

“Get down, damn you, or I’ll get you down.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, her fingers tightening on her crop. “Try it.”

He snorted. “Ah, going to stripe the other side to match, are you? That would be fitting.”

All at once, the anger he’d seen flashing in her tawny eyes diminished. “Of course not. I would never hit you. I admit might have fantasised about it, though,” she added with a sigh. “And I can see I scared you witless, so I suppose it ought not surprise me at your becoming an overbearing arse. It is your usual response to most situations after all.”

Rochford blinked up at her, too startled by her rapid change in temperament to respond.

“I suppose you weren’t to know I can handle a horse like Apollo, and it would be a tricky jump for most people, but I am not most people, Rochford. I have three large and annoying brothers whom I could never resist beating at everything. I had to be better than them, don’t you see? Or at least as good. To lose would have been too awful to endure.”

“By God, you are a stubborn piece of work,” he said, staring at her in wonder. He wasn’t certain if that had been admiration or irritation in his voice. Perhaps both. She was an infuriating woman but… But. Damnation, that but was going to land him in a world of trouble if he wasn’t careful.

“I am, and don’t look so appalled. My godfather would have scolded me too, I don’t doubt. He doesn’t like me riding alone.”

Rochford frowned, stroking the horse’s silky nose, and trying to catch his breath.

“Do you feel less like murdering me now?” she asked conversationally.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “My heart is still crashing about like disaster is imminent.”

Her lips quirked into a wry smile of understanding. “Well, it does seem imminent any time we are in each other’s vicinity, so… so perhaps we should stay away from each other. It might be safer. Best for both of us.”

Alarmed by the vehement disagreement that burst to life in his chest at her suggestion, Rochford answered quickly, before he could change his mind, and so perhaps with more force than he had intended.

“Yes,” he said. “An excellent idea. Good morning to you, my lady.”

Chapter 8

Dear Mama, Papa—and I suppose, Lyall, Muir, and Hamilton,

I am having a marvellous time at Beverwyck. It is so lovely to see Evie and Rosamund again and we have talked and laughed so much it’s a wonder we’ve not lost our voices. Eliza’s husband Monsieur Demarteau is here, and he is very charming, though he looks like a wicked rogue. Eliza is obviously besotted with him. Lottie and Cass are as funny and entertaining as ever and it is lovely to see them again. All the Adolphus clan sends their love. The children are growing like weeds and are adorable. Oh, and the mysterious Comte de Villen, I cannot leave him out, can I? Everything they say about him is true. He looks like a fallen angel, and I become a babbling idiot whenever he turns his gaze in my direction. Thankfully, it isn’t often, or I should look a dreadful ninny. He seems charming, but remote, the only people who truly make him smile being his young ward, Agatha, and Evie. Evie seems completely immune to his charms, and I cannot help but wonder if that is why he seeks her company so often.

―Excerpt of a letter to the Right Hon’ble Ruth and Gordon Anderson, The Earl and Countess of Morven, from their daughter, Lady Georgina Anderson.

12th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

Georgie’s plan to avoid the duke was scuppered almost at once as she discovered she’d been placed next to him at dinner again that evening. Though being ignored by him had been infuriating, she supposed she understood his impulse. They brought out the worst in each other and so it was best they stayed far apart. Except fate did not seem to agree with this sensible decision.

They got through almost the entire meal without speaking to each other, until the dessert course. The footmen presented everyone with a crystal dish containing the most glorious individual trifle. Georgina devoured hers far too quickly, ahead of everyone else, and with far too much enjoyment for good manners, before noticing Rochford hadn’t touched his. Of course, he’d said he didn’t like sweet things.

She told herself not to mention it, but she had a dreadful fondness for trifle and the dratted thing was calling to her. Every time she convinced herself she would not mention it, for he’d only think her ill-mannered and greedy, temptation drew her gaze back to the pretty arrangement of raspberries and sponge and cream and….

“Aren’t you going to eat that?” she blurted out, instantly regretting the impulse as Rochford turned to look at her.

“I don’t like sweets,” he reminded her.

“What kind of person doesn’t like sweets?” she demanded crossly, though why the fact should irritate her so, she did not know. “It seems an inherently untrustworthy trait in a person not to find pleasure in dessert.”

“Well, you already know I am unreasonable, pompous, overbearing—”

“An arse, yes, I remember,” she said, surprised by the glint of satisfaction in his eyes, as if he’d been waiting for her to interrupt him and was pleased about it. “So now I must add untrustworthy to the list, too, must I?”

He frowned at her, though she wasn’t certain she believed it. She wasn’t certain he was cross at all, or irritated. How odd. “I am many things, but never untrustworthy,” he said, holding her gaze.

Georgie turned away from him, unsettled, but the dratted trifle was still there, uneaten, tempting her. She dared a glance back at the duke to find him watching her. He quirked one eyebrow as her gaze settled on the pudding. Drat it, he knew she wanted it. Well, he wouldn’t have the satisfaction of hearing her ask for it.

She sat like a proper, well-mannered young woman and admired the table, which was beautifully decorated. Candlelight glinted upon crystal and silverware and table decorations of holly studded with berries, and Christmas roses.