Page 28 of The Mistletoe Dare

The comte nodded politely and returned his attention to Lottie, who was sitting beside him.

Georgie sighed and set down her spoon, pushing the empty trifle glass away from her. Turning back to the duke, she considered trying to gain his attention again, but he was conversing with Evie, and it was so rare to see him talking to anyone else but her or Jules, Georgie thought she’d best let him be. It was good to see him relaxing and becoming a fraction more amiable, but she regretted missing the opportunity to provoke him again. Perhaps when they retired to the parlour after dinner.

Yet, as soon as the party rose from the table, Rochford excused himself.

Georgie tried to catch his attention as he left the room, wondering why he was leaving so early in the evening.

“Has my diabolical company scared you off at last?” she asked him as he passed her on his way towards the stairs.

He barely paused, his manner brisk and terse. “No, my lady, but I find I am not in the mood for further inanity. Besides, I am certain you have more agreeable company than mine to enjoy. Goodnight.”

Georgie stared at him, taken aback by both his words and the coldness of his tone. He’d not even looked at her.

Inanity? The wretched man. He had been as big a part of that silly conversation as she had. It was him who’d taken a trifle he’d no intention of eating. How dare he mock her so? Her temper sparked to life, and she felt utterly furious that he had denied her the opportunity to give him a proper set down, stalking off like that, the horrid creature. Oh! Now she remembered why she hated him. She sat simmering for the best part of half an hour before she realised she was in too dreadful a temper to be good company and excused herself.

Georgie stalked up the stairs, muttering under her breath and turned towards her room, which was in the family wing of the immense house. As she went, she saw Rochford’s valet, a delicate, almost pretty young man who gave her a polite nod as he passed her. That was Rochford’s suite, she realised, turning to see the valet hurrying towards the servants’ staircase. And he was alone.

Too provoked for good sense to prevail, Georgie hammered on his door.

He wrenched it open a moment later, the action swiftly accompanied by an irritated exclamation as the duke’s gaze fell upon her.

“What the devil do you want?” he demanded.

For a moment, Georgie was diverted at the sight of him in his shirtsleeves, with his cravat abandoned. She could see wiry black hair curling upon his chest where the shirt fell open. Goodness. Wrenching her gaze up to his face, she reminded herself she was furious with him, ignored the heat blooming in places it had no business being, and launched into an attack.

“Why were you so horrid to me?”

“I’m an obnoxious arse, remember?” he retorted.

Either the scar at his mouth was twisting his lip into a furious sneer, or perhaps he really wanted to look so angry and fearsome, though what she’d done to make him so furious she did not know.

“Yes, you are,” she retorted, deciding too late that this had been the most appalling mistake.

She turned to leave and then squealed in alarm, the sound smothered by his large hand as he tugged her into his room and slammed the door.

Georgie went very still, vibratingly aware of the massive, hard body behind her, the muscular arm banded about her waist, and his hand still clamped over her mouth. He was breathing as erratically as she, his heartbeat hammering against her back, though what he had to be alarmed about she couldn’t fathom. She was the one who’d just been accosted. Kidnapped! She made a muffled sound behind his hand, and he released her.

Georgie spun around to glare at him.

“What did you do that for?” she demanded, annoyed to discover her voice had turned high-pitched and squeaky.

“The comte’s blasted valet was walking straight towards us! A fine juicy bit of gossip that would have been in the servants’ hall, or did you come here with the express intention of ruining yourself?”

“Oh! Don’t you start that again,” she retorted furiously. “If you are so utterly deranged as to think I would wish to be married to a surly curmudgeon like you… Argh! Why do I bother?”

“Yes, why?” he demanded, equally angry. “Why the bloody hell do you bother tormenting me when you’ve the likes of Louis César to cast your lures at?”

Georgie glowered at him and folded her arms. “Oh, I see. We’re back to lures again, are we? Like I’m trying to trap some poor fellow into marrying me, because that would obviously be a fate worse than death!”

“It might well be,” he thundered, and in some better behaved part of her brain she wondered why on earth she wasn’t terrified of him. He was big and annoyed and bellowing, and yet she did not for one second feel as if she was in any danger. How odd. Or perhaps she was merely unhinged.

“You’re just a dog in a manger,” she said, a little startled by the look in his eyes at her accusation, but she ploughed on. Too late to turn back now. “You don’t like me or want me, but you don’t want anyone else to like me or want me, either!”

“That’s a damned lie!”

“It isn’t!”

“Is too!”