Page 27 of The Mistletoe Dare

“It’s killing you, isn’t it?”

Georgie looked back at the duke, keeping her expression bland. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“You want my trifle.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Liar.”

“Well, I ought to have known you’d resort to insulting me,” she said with a sniff, turning her head resolutely away from him.

“Why not? You insult me all the time.”

“You deserve it,” she retorted, goaded into turning back to look at him.

He grinned at her, and it was a remarkably boyish expression that ought to have sat ill upon his harsh features, but it made a strange sensation flutter in her chest. Lud. This was why she ought not talk to him.

He leaned down, so close that if she turned her head, she was certain to feel his beard tickle her cheek. “What’s it worth?”

Georgie gave him a suspicious glance. “What do you want?”

He shrugged. “Nothing, but you’re the one who covets my trifle. It’s got to be worth something.”

“Oh, honestly. Why did you even take the dratted thing if—” She broke off, realising suddenly that he’d taken it on purpose. “You horrid creature! You did it to provoke me.”

“How on earth could I have known taking a trifle I have no intention of eating would provoke you?” he asked, which from any other man might have been a reasonable question.

“You lied. You know I adore dessert. Oh, you’re not the least bit trustworthy,” she accused him.

He shrugged. “But I still have the trifle. Perhaps I’ll give it to Jules, he has a sweet tooth.” He reached for it and Georgie’s hand shot out before the thought connected with her brain, snatching the little crystal dish from him. Deftly, she picked up her spoon and scooped up a large helping, stuffing it in her mouth.

“Mm-mm,” she said, glaring defiantly at him. She licked her lips. “Delicious.”

His gaze darkened, his eyes falling to her lips. “You are a bad girl, Lady Georgina.”

“A graceless, mannerless baggage,” she agreed equitably, taking another spoonful with undisguised glee.

“And happy about it.”

“Aye,” she retorted, trying not to snort as he shook his head in despair.

Rather to her annoyance, Georgina’s attention was taken from the duke, as a discussion about the Bedwin’s annual Christmas ball the night after next had everyone else chattering excitedly.

“Do you remember last year’s, Georgie? It was marvellous, wasn’t it?” Rosamund asked her, eyes alight with anticipation.

Georgie replied with a smile, but grimaced inwardly. She remembered it well. Mostly she remembered hardly dancing at all with anyone who wasn’t a friend or a blood relation. Gentlemen simply did not wish to dance with an Amazon. Jules had been kind and taken pity, and her family had been here that year. Her father, and even her brothers, had danced with her. It had been too humiliating for words, because her brothers had been unusually kind to her, which only proved how obvious it was that she was being left with the wallflowers.

For a moment she considered persuading Rochford to go, for no doubt he wouldn’t unless someone blackmailed him into it. Their dance had been wonderful. She sighed as a peculiarly warm and wistful sensation unfurled in her belly… which was why that was a dreadful idea. It was fine bantering with a man like Rochford, but she must not give him ideas. He might accuse her of trying to seduce him again, or worse still, he might actually take a fancy to her and propose. Good heavens! Being married to a devil like that would be a nightmare. They’d murder each other before the year was out. Something horribly like regret whispered through her mind and she pushed it away. Rochford obviously strongly disliked the idea of her as a duchess, he’d made that clear, and she had absolutely no desire to be one. So that was that. Georgie looked up and the comte’s beautiful face caught her eye. Wistfully, she considered dancing with him at the ball. The comte was tall enough not to make her feel she was so wretchedly big and clumsy compared to the other young ladies. Not so heavily built as Rochford, so she wouldn’t have the extraordinary sensation of feeling dainty in his arms, but at least she’d not see people laughing at her for looking foolish. She wondered if she could get Evie to persuade him to ask her. He caught her gaze then and smiled at her and Georgie turned away with a blush, embarrassed at being caught staring again.

“Lady Georgina.”

Georgie forced herself to look back at him, suppressing a shiver of pleasure at the way her name sounded with the soft ‘g’s his French accent gave it.

“Yes,” she replied, relieved to have managed a response this time.

“I hope you will reserve a dance for me.”

“Oh.” Georgie’s colour rose dramatically, so hot she was certain Rochford must be able to feel it scald him. Oh, he would mock her for this. “I-I should be pleased to do so. Merci, monsieur.”